#the elite's dignity

[pissmoon]

Yes, I think pop punk is lame. Yes, I think dressing full on goth while only listening to pop music is lame. Yes, I think writing essays on why wearing merch of bands you dont listen to is 'valid' is lame

[childrenofcain-if]

DEMO ✝ BACK-UP ACCOUNT

Wealth. Power. Death.

The Ballad of the Young Gods is a dark academia interactive fiction story, with dark fantasy and psychological thriller themes. Some of the romances also contain tropes and storylines which may be disturbing to some readers.

It is based on media like “Ninth House” by Leigh Bardugo, “The Secret History” by Donna Tart, “Masters of Death” by Olivie Blake, and SYFY’s “Deadly Class”.

It is rated 18+ for depictions of swearing, sexual themes, violence, and death.

Getting into an Ivy League school is a dream that thousands of American students nurse from a young age. Luckily for you, that dream is your reality. Four years of continuous hard work and pressure have made you a proud freshman at Yale University. And as if that wasn’t enough, you have been handpicked to attend Rathore College, whose selection process is revered across all the nation’s top educational institutions. But you should’ve known this stroke of luck came with a catch.

Yale is a crucible of power, where secret societies wield arcane magic and the dead are far from silent. The illustrious House of Styx wants you and this is a situation that not even your money can get you out of.

They are powerful, elite, and most of all, controlling beyond recognition. They are also the heart of the eight secret societies that attach themselves to Yale. From the White House to Hollywood’s most acclaimed stars, their influence reaches farther than anyone can dare to imagine.

A sinister conspiracy brews under Styx’s watchful gaze, one that threatens to unravel the fragile balance between the living and the dead. But in a graveyard of secrets, you and your accomplices are the ones with the shovels. You’re now in a world where the past is never truly dead, and the lines between life and death blur with each passing day.

But some secrets are better left buried, and some prophecies are destined to drag you to hell.

Cédric Armand Lacroix / Céline Armelle Lacroix (M/F)

Vindictive. Conniving. Ruthless.

As the heir to the Lacroix fortune, C is every bit as arrogant as their bloodline demands them to be. Even after the messy divorce of their parents which further led to their disownment by their father, Alain Lacroix, they refuse to give up on their dignity. They’ve vowed to destroy him one day and take what’s rightful theirs, brick by brick. The world bent to C’s whims, what money couldn't buy them, those pale green eyes probably did.

There is nothing that they can’t have, especially if they set their mind to that. That is until you came along and stayed one step ahead of them every time in everything that mattered. It wasn’t just the fortune or the legacy at stake; it was the bruising of their pride, the constant reminder that someone—anyone—could outmaneuver them. But beneath the layers of resentment and anger, there’s something more—something darker, even more dangerous.

An obsession takes root, one that blurs the line between hatred and fascination. And they vow to spend their whole life despising you for everything.

Romance trope: Enemies / Academic Rivals to Lovers.

Vance Kasper Næsholm / Vanessa Karina Næsholm (M/F)

Pious. Haunted. Disillusioned.

Raised under the oppressive influence of a rigid, fire-and-brimstone faith in a Danish Catholic orphanage, they were taught to see demons in every shadow and sin in every touch. Forever haunted by the visions provided by a wrathful God they can neither fully grasp their mind around nor escape from, their only reprieve came on the day they got adopted at the age of six and diagnosed with schizophrenia. But the truth of their ‘psychosis’ may be far more sinister than any medical diagnosis could account for.

As the tides become even stormier and their medications become ineffective when they arrive at Yale, all V can do is hold on to the last threads of control over their lives. Your first meeting almost makes them teeter over the edge.

Now that they’re your roommate, they’re bound to you by fate or folly, but whether they’ll be a stable ally remains to be seen.

Romance trope: Roommate Romance.

Wilhelm Johann Ostendorf / Wilhelmine Johanna Ostendorf (M/F)

Exhausted. Abandoned. Lost.

What does the world think of you when you’re a product of brilliance and neglect at the same time? With an Oscar-winning filmmaker for a father and a mother ensconced on the American board of directors at the Louvre, their pedigree is undeniable, yet it is a legacy more hollow than it appears. While their parents sculpted their careers into masterpieces and amassed accolades, they left W to be raised by their paternal aunt and uncle. A sizeable trust fund and periodic checks served as their parents’ only gestures of care, a shallow substitute for the love and attention their only child so desperately craved.

The only times they had felt more than someone who was deeply unlovable were the summers you spent on rusty swingsets and fast bicycles with training wheels. But the swingsets have long been dismantled, and the bicycles have been traded for cars.

The only questions remain—are you the same kid who saw them, really saw them, beyond the reality of being unwanted and the suffocating looks filled with pity that came with their name? Or will this reunion only serve to confirm their deepest fear—that they are, and always have been, truly alone?

Romance trope: Forgotten Childhood Friends to Lovers.

Dumitru Constantin Diaconu / Dumitra Constantina Diaconu (M/F)

Charismatic. Reckless. Guarded.

D’s name is the one that comes up in almost every conversation about Yale’s wildest parties. A natural-born rockstar charmer with a magnetic presence, they effortlessly draw people into their orbit, collecting hearts and bodies with the ease of someone who’s always been in the center of the gold rush. Despite the countless admirers and the trail of broken hearts left in their wake, you’ll always find them with a Marlboro between their lips and a new person in their arms to warm their bed at night. Their smile is a promise, and their laughter a siren call. In the haze of flashing lights and the thrum of bass that pulses through the walls, they are a heartbreaker in every sense of the word.

Feelings are a complication they don’t allow, a line they never cross. They’ve perfected the art of detachment, of keeping their connections strictly no-strings, because to let someone in would be to risk the vulnerability they’ve long since sworn off.

Will you be the only person they'd let peel back the barbed wire surrounding their heart? Or will you be left with nothing but the faint scent of cinnamon and a tale that wasn't meant to be?

Romance trope: Friends with Benefits / Sex First, Feelings Later. [You will only be able to unlock their romance route through a hookup.]

Maxwell Edmund Whitlock-Singh / Maxine Edythe Whitlock-Singh (M/F)

Duty-bound. Noble. Untouchable.

Politeness and decorum are second nature to M. They are the embodiment of manners, a living testament to the art of subtlety in a world where spectacle often trumps substance. They are the sort of person who commands attention without seeking it, a product of both royal blood and rigorous self-discipline. Dubbed the “Paragon of Styx,” M is a modern Plato, someone who finds as much solace in philosophical debates as in the classical texts they’ve devoured in multiple languages. As the second-born child of the Crown Princess of Wales, they have always understood that their life would be one of service with every action scrutinized, and every word weighed.

Their intellect is vast, but it is their passion for the esoteric that sets them apart. For all their convictions, there is a restlessness within M that even they cannot fully articulate. It is the paradox of their existence—a life of privilege that feels at times like a gilded cage, a role that demands both reverence and obedience. Indeed, heavy is the head that wears the crown.

Will you make them realize that life is more than duties and expectations? Or will you become yet another figure in the background, another reminder of the golden cage they were born into?

Romance trope: Forbidden Royal Romance / Secret Relationship.

Step into the shadows as the wealthy heir apparent to a billion-dollar industry who is just starting at Yale University as a freshman.

Be a part of Yale’s most enigmatic secret society, the House of Styx.

Fully customize your character including: pronouns, gender, physical appearance, personality, sexuality, and more.

Romance 1 out of 5 love interests (all of them are gender-selectable).

Study forbidden knowledge, practice dark magic, and try not to fail at your actual coursework.

Test your mind, body, and soul in rituals that blur the line between reality and nightmare.

Learn about the secrets that your mother took to her grave. Is she really the same woman you remember so fondly from your childhood?

Will you rise to navigate the sinister plans brewing under the nose of the House? Or will your actions drag you and your companions to the fiery depths of Hell.

W̶̗͖̝͆h̷͕̲̑̎̓̍̄̎͠͝a̵̢̛̫̾̓͗t̴͛̐͆̾͝��̙̫̓̔̊ ̴̪́́̈́͛̂̉̀͒̊́ạ̸̗̯͗̀ͅ��̘̬r̸̢̪̜̭̼̠̟̜͚̂̈́͋͋̅͑̉́̎͝e̸̩̯͉̿̊̔͛̃̎͝ͅ ̵̢̹̜̤͍͙̩̬̰̜̏̃͝͠y̷̢̨͇̘͍̌́͐̍̆̓̑̐ǫ̶̢̧̡̛̥̤͉͎̟̃̏̍̓̒ͅu̷̓̂̾̇̇͜͝,̸͎̖̮̲̳̻̱̬̎̒͑͝ ̸̡̛̰̌͐c̶̛̪̗̰̻̜̲̘̺͗͊h̴̡͔̦̘̤̖͊̿̓̇i̵͉̘͙̥͍̼̜̐̐̄̅͝͝ĺ̶̡̧̧̼̦̦̗̰̝̼̓̊̀d̸̡͎͔͔̰̖̿̐̈́̓͊̌̃̓͜?̷̩̗̲̫̮͕̍̈́́̽͜͝͝

DEMO

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SPOTIFY (for RO playlists, click on their names in the cast section)

PINTEREST

DISCORD

WRITTEN BY: axel (he/him)

CODED BY: @albywritesfiction (they/them)

[gremlingottoosilly]

Hiii! I just read Mafia!Konig x introverted!Reader and it gave me this great idea! can you please do one where introvert!reader absolutely clings to konig since he is this big scary mafia guy so people are too afraid of him so don't try to talk to her out of fear of him.

as an introvert who absolutely does this i would greatly appreciate it!

Mafia!Konig is definitely your protector. It's how you two met, actually. You see, being an introvert is hard, but you manage to live just fine for a long time. Never a single problem, always moisturized and in your lane - it's just that your extraverted friends can sometimes be a bit of assholes who love pulling you out of your shell as you kick and scream. This is how you ended up squeezed between sweaty, dancing bodies at some expensive elite club that wasn't allowing regular stoners and instead opted for people who could afford cocaine and a minimal order of 300 euros per table. You don't think you ever drank something that was more than 15 Euro for something very bougie - but here you are, feeling uncomfortable. Awkward. Your friends left to flirt with some guys, and you would leave, but you haven't paid for your order yet, and you won't put it on someone else's tab. This is how you caught Konig's eye. A lamb to the slaughter, too innocent of a creature to simply ignore. He had to have you, press you in his arms and hope he'd be able to take you home without choking you and them threatening your poor body with his gun. He wanted something nice today, and protecting some awkward lady in the middle of her introverted breakdown is his one good deed for the year. You just wanted to go to some quiet place to recharge. Konig had already paid for a VIP room for the whole night, but now he just pushes you to it slightly, not caring that you're trying to stay near and find your friends. He says it's fine and he won't hurt you. You feel the outline of something metallic and sharp poking at your hip, so you decide to listen. Your dignity is not worth being stabbed, you think. He apologizes for being too harsh, and he looks a bit nervous. There is a mask hiding his face and you feel even more scared now - but he explains how he just wanted to make sure you're doing alright. He says he just wanted to help a pretty lady not be too overwhelmed with everything. He gives you something nice to drink and covers the tab for the entire table. He doesn't make you talk to him and instead allows you to examine his tattoos with poorly contained curiosity. He is nice for a dude who is definitely into some crime stuff. You just wished he didn't kidnap you later that night. It was kinda rude.

[sleepydeprived]

A Chance for Redemption

—A mysterious high school student appears out of the blue, bearing the face of the late Martha Wayne and puzzling even Gotham's greatest detectives.

[chapter 3]

Mama I’m Chasing A Ghost.

| Platonic!Yandere!Batfam x Reader

The floor-to-ceiling windows of my bedroom looked out onto the manicured gardens of the estate, and in the distance, was a view of Gotham that never seemed to change.

The same scenery, the same routine.

The butlers, the maids, the drivers who ferried me from one lavish location to another.

Every day was like the last, but with one major exception;

Gotham Academy

For the first time in my life, I had been thrust into a world that wasn’t mine. My mother had insisted I’d go, telling me it was for my own good. I was homeschooled my entire life, my education confined to private tutors and digital classes.

That is.. until my mother moved me to a prestigious school a few months ago. I don’t know what changed her mind. She was always so hellbent on keeping my life private. Her sweet little girl that only she knew about.

But now here I am attending a school that is closely watched by weird, content-hungry journalists and creepy paparazzis hoping to catch a photograph of children with high titles.

Nevertheless, I felt like an outsider. A puzzle that didn’t quite fit. I was the new kid—the girl who came out of nowhere.

But being an outsider didn’t automatically mean loner.

My presence didn’t go unnoticed.

I was different. People knew it, felt it, and stared. Maybe it was the fact that I came from a family—a clan—that held such an influence over Gotham’s elites. I was basically one relative away from a famous celebrity or a corrupt politician.

But, of course, there was also the resemblance to Martha Wayne.

It was a ghost of a resemblance, really, but it haunted me all the same. From the first day I stepped onto campus, I heard the whispers;

She looks like Martha Wayne.

The wife of Thomas Wayne?

She could be her daughter...

Or granddaughter.

It had started out as idle speculation, but as the days passed, the gossip only grew.

People stared, talked behind my back, and pointed at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. They didn't know me, but they had already formed an opinion. The mystery girl. The girl who had somehow, inexplicably, appeared out of nowhere. The girl who had the same smile, the same eyes, the same air of dignity and grace as Gotham’s most beloved figure. The figure whose tragic death had left an indelible mark on the city.

I had never cared for the attention. In fact, I hated it. I’m not interested in being some object of fascination, and that’s just how I was raised. I’m not Martha Wayne nor am I related to her—or at least, that’s what I’ve been told. The more people asked, the more I pushed that idea away. But the whispers were constant.

It made me think. A lot. So much more than what I preferred.

And suddenly, the buried thoughts from childhood of who and where my biological father was came rushing back.

Ever since I was a child, I had learned to bury my feelings—bury the questions about my father, and why my mother wouldn’t speak of him. There had been one conversation about it, years ago when my mother still had the time to let me in her study.

"Your father is not someone you need to concern yourself with," mother had said, her voice cold and stern. "Do not ask about him. Do not seek him. He is not a part of your life. Understand?"

And now, in the halls of Gotham Academy, that memory itched at me, more often than ever before. The bell rang, signaling the end of another school day, but I didn’t hurry to leave. I stood at my locker, staring at my reflection in the shiny surface of the metal.

Do I look like her?

————————

taglist:

@leeleecats @mariadvorak @deans-spinster-witch @rainlovewrites @xoacesgf @whiteoakoak @uknowimdumb @otterluver05

[kushamisaru]

How many more CEOs and other elites do we think have to die before these people remember that they're mortal, and more importantly that the people beneath them are deserving of basic human dignity? They seem to be pretty spooked with one, maybe it won't take as many as I initially thought.

[autolenaphilia]

God, this is so weak. Sarah McBride just caving immediately to Republican transmisogyny with this bathroom law. Like we knew she was pro-Israel, but that didn't surprise me, most democrats elected to congress are, but i expected her at least to defend her own human dignity. Like, to paraphrase The Big Lebowski, "I mean, say what you want about the tenets of zionism, at least it's an ethos.", this is just spineless cowardice.

To be fair, I doubt this was entirely McBride's decision, i'm sure she spoke with the Democratic Party bigwigs and got told to just cave, because they wouldn't back her in resisting this. But that just further implicates the Democratic Party.

Like someone with a backbone would see this as an opportunity to do some civil disobedience and disobey this rule. Make a statement, resist. But, no, the Democratic Party is so tied to law and order that they see no room for even peaceful civil disobedience.

At least not in the case of trans women's rights. The Democratic Party elite already has been talking this past november that the reason Harris lost the election was because she wasn't transphobic enough. So the democrats might have decided to just let this outrage slide in the hopes of getting more votes.

Violating transmisogynistic bathroom laws is something ordinary trans women do everyday to survive, entirely without the privileges Sarah Mcbride has as a congresswoman.

In fact, that's exactly the women she is screwing over by not using that privilege to fight. As quoted in Erin Reed's article linked above: "Transgender advocate and Harvard Clinical Instructor Alejandra Caraballo emphasized the broader implications: “This isn't just about her. These rules apply to trans staffers and interns who do not have the protections and privilege that she has.”

Women who unlike Mcbride, don't have a private toilet connected to their office to use (every congressperson has their own office with its own toilet).

And as Erin Reed quotes in her article:

"Ash Orr, a transgender organizer in West Virginia, was equally critical: “Rep. McBride’s messaging essentially suggests that if a federal ban is enacted, trans people should simply comply. While I understand the difficult position she is in, she holds a position of immense power and privilege. She should be using that power to defend and protect her community, not falling in line. Trans lives are at stake.”

Clearly the #resistance against the coming second Trump adminstration is off to a great start /s

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part one)

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 ; WELL WELL WELL my angels. we are back with ANOTHER series <3 i am not kidding, this story has had me tossing and turning and screaming and crying. they are such a nuanced duo(even more so than utcf) and if you know me, you know i only write characters that are flawed af and boy… do these two have flaws. also so excited bc my dream is to be a CMO so all that marketing jargon is literally ripped from my real life. this is def a slower burn more than utcf even was, so part one is just getting to know reader, a glimpse into jk and hers future dynamic. it will be giving cocky idol and grumpy girl boss reader… yall hate to see it.. anywho all your love and support is so appreciated and im SO excited to kick this one off <3

playlist here

series masterlist here

You learned at an early age that the world doesn’t hand power to people like you. You have to take it.

Born in Busan, raised in a home where every won had to stretch, you grew up with a hunger that never faded. Your parents worked tirelessly; it was long hours in dimly lit shops, silent tears in the living room over bills, doing everything they could to put food on the table. They wanted stability for you, a quiet life where everything was paid on time and there was no need to chase the impossible.

But you weren’t built for small dreams.

At 17, you won a coveted scholarship to a university in Seoul, a golden ticket out of the cycle that kept your family trapped. There, you became relentless. Top of your class, the kind of student professors whispered about, the one who never failed, never wavered. But no amount of late-night studying or overachieving could buy you the connections that children of chaebol heirs and international elites were born into.

So, you had to outwork them. By the time you graduated, you had one goal: to carve your name into an industry that had no place for you. You moved to America, leaving behind familiarity, comfort, and even your family, knowing that to rise, you had to go where power lived.

New York City became your battlefield.

You started at the bottom, fetching coffees, ghostwriting proposals, working eighteen-hour days just to prove you deserved to be in the same rooms as people who had never known struggle. You didn’t just climb the corporate ladder; you burned every rung behind you so there was no way back down.

It took a decade, but now the plaque hangs on the wall. The name plate rings true of all your dreams. You are the Chief Marketing Officer of Calvin Klein.

At 30, you sit at the helm of one of the most influential luxury brands in the world, the architect of campaigns that have redefined fashion and culture. Your name carries weight in boardrooms, your decisions shift global trends, and every executive in the industry knows you are untouchable.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

In a world like this, power is never permanent. The moment you hesitate, falter, let someone too close, they will take everything.

All that to say — Monday mornings in New York almost always smell like steel and ambition.

The skyline stretches endlessly beyond the glass walls of your office, the pulse of the city thrumming beneath you, yellow cabs blurring past, heels clicking against concrete, the quiet hum of wealth without ever making a sound. You barely had time to sleep after landing from Los Angeles last night, but exhaustion has never been an excuse.

You straighten your blazer, heels clicking against the marble floors as you stride into the Calvin Klein executive boardroom. The space is drenched in morning light, the Hudson River glinting in the distance, but there’s no warmth. Sharp minds and even sharper tongues, all waiting for you to take your seat at the head of the table.

“Let’s get started.” Your voice is crisp, cutting through the murmurs as the team scrambles to attention. Coffee cups are set down, postures shift. The room belongs to you now, like it always does.

This is your campaign, your bread and butter — the Fall Collection, one of the biggest of the year. And today, the decision needs to be made. Who will be the face of it? You’ve put it off as long as possible, especially after the last campaign that had you sleeping, eating and breathing the word ROI.

A junior executive clears his throat, flipping through a stack of polished portfolios. “We’ve compiled a list of potential candidates. Some of the usual names, established actors, a few models with strong followings…”

You take the folder from him, skimming past faces that blur into one another, all predictable choices, safe bets. Safe has never impressed you.

“We’re not looking for predictable,” you say, voice even. “We need someone who will shift the culture. Someone who doesn’t just wear the clothes, but makes people desperate to buy them.”

Silence. Then, the suggestions roll in. A high-profile supermodel. A rising actor from a Netflix hit. Some European footballer with global appeal.

You listen, nodding as they speak, but your silence is judgment. Each name is good but not enough. Polished and uninspired, in your opinion.

You shoot them down effortlessly. “No. We’ve used her before.

No. He doesn’t have the presence.

No. I don’t need another pretty face.”

The tension in the room grows. The team knows you expect brilliance, not silly little recycled ideas.

Then, your VP of Content leans forward, fingers steepled. “I have a name,” He says, measured, waiting for your reaction.

You lift a brow. “Then say it.”

“Jeon Jungkook.”

For the first time, there’s a halt of all noise. Light murmurs. Someone exhales sharply. You hear a scoff from the far end of the table.

“A Korean idol?” One of the senior execs frowns. “That’s a different market entirely.”

“Not just any idol,” your VP counters. “The biggest. Pretty much the frontman of BTS. His brand power is—”

“Unmatched,” You finish for him.

Because it is. Jeon Jungkook isn’t just a name, he’s a phenomenon. A face that sells out stadiums in minutes, a body carved in discipline, a force that transcends the music industry entirely.

Still, the pushback is immediate “Well, he’s never fronted a campaign of this scale.

Idol endorsements don’t always translate to luxury.

Do we want to take that kind of risk?”

Risk.

The word hangs in the air heavily. It should deter you. It should make you pause. But instead, you find yourself a tad intrigued.

What is Calvin Klein, if not bold? If not disruptive? The brand has always thrived on rebellion, on choosing icons that define eras rather than follow them.

Jeon Jungkook is undeniably that. Perhaps, so are you.

You let the murmurs settle before speaking. “What’s our engagement rate from the last campaign?” You ask, looking towards the analytics team.

“Thirty percent growth,” They answer immediately.

“And what’s BTS’s engagement on a single brand mention?”

A pause. A begrudging voice follows, “Higher.”

Exactly.

You glance around the room, seeing the uncertainty and hesitation. You’re about to give a speech greater than LeBron at the NBA Finals. You lean back in your chair, tapping a manicured nail against the armrest, already picturing it, the campaign, the impact, the sheer cultural shift this could create.

“I like it.”

Silence.

A ripple of realization moves through the room, as if with just three words, the decision has already been made.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Securing a global superstar isn’t an easy task, not even for you. The next few days are a relentless blur of negotiations, contract rewrites, and back-to-back Zoom calls with a team so notoriously meticulous it nearly drives your own to the brink of madness.

The stakes are high. Deals like this don’t just happen. They are built, fought for, and secured with precision. And Calvin Klein doesn’t like to lose.

Your office pretty much transforms into a war room. Tables littered with printed pitch decks. Screens glowing with data analytics, engagement metrics, and market predictions. Your executives pouring over legal clauses, revising them so every word is airtight.

In the center of it all, you stand. Any normal human would be threatened but at this point, you’ve gone full robot. You take every call personally. A negotiation of this scale is your battlefield, and you don’t delegate wars.

Jungkook, obviously, is never on the calls. It doesn’t surprise you. Artists at his level rarely handle the business side of things. That’s what agents, lawyers, and managers are for. His team is professional, unshaken even when you push hard.

Still, you know who he is.

Of course you do. You may have spent the last decade buried in boardrooms, but you were born in Busan. You grew up watching the Hallyu wave explode, and though you never had the time for it, your little sister devoured everything BTS.

You remember the way she would beg for concert tickets, how she’d fall asleep with headphones on, listening to their debut on loop. You used to tease her for it— why the fuck are you crying over an idol?

Funny, looking back at it now. Considering that idol’s contract is currently giving you a migraine.

His team is smart. They have demands, and they don’t bend easily. They want creative control over his campaign image. They want scheduling flexibility due to his commitments. They want Calvin Klein to align with Jungkook’s existing partnerships… list goes on.

All reasonable, but not easy. You fight for compromises, push for adjustments, rewrite proposals until every angle is optimized for success. At the end of the day, you know one thing: This deal is worth it.

And then, one morning, before you’ve even had a sip of your morning coffee, it happens. At exactly 7:14 AM, an email lands in your inbox.

SUBJECT: FINAL APPROVAL – JEON JUNGKOOK x CALVIN KLEIN

We are pleased to confirm Jeon Jungkook’s official partnership with Calvin Klein for the upcoming Fall Collection campaign. Thank you for your patience and professionalism throughout the negotiation process. We look forward to working together!

Your eyes flicker over the words. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times before you think you might pass out.

Slowly, a smile curves on your lips. You step out of your office, and before you can say anything, someone sees your expression and knows.

“We got him.”

The room erupts. Your team, overworked and barely running on caffeine, comes alive. Cheers echo through the space, hands slap against the table in triumph, tension melting into borderline euphoria.

They know what this means. This isn’t just a campaign. This is the kind of collaboration that will hopefully bring the brand back to the forefront of everyone’s minds and not in some TJMaxx aisle.

You let them celebrate. You don’t smile often, but today… today, you do.

Just when you think the victory high has settled, a package arrives later in the day for you. It’s a black envelope, embossed with gold lettering. No company branding. No assistant delivery. Just your name.

You open it carefully. Inside is a thick, cream-colored card with an unmistakable touch of handwritten ink.

Thank you for having me.
I’m looking forward to it.
—JJK

You stare at the writing for a beat too long. It’s clean, elegant, but slightly tilted, like the hand behind it didn’t care about perfection. The inked letters feel unexpectedly personal, almost at odds with the meticulous contracts you spent days battling over.

A small, teeny weeny little part of you does wonder… What kind of man is Jeon Jungkook when he’s not just a name on a contract?

You shake the thought away real quick. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the deal is done.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Power has a way of softening the sharp edges of travel.

As Chief Marketing Officer, you rarely have to think about logistics. The world bends to accommodate you with first-class flights, black car service, five-star hotels with skyline views. When business demands your presence in another country, the details are handled before you even lift a finger.

This time is no different.

The moment Calvin Klein secured Jeon Jungkook, it became your responsibility to oversee the partnership firsthand. Deals of this magnitude require your attention, and no one executes anything better than you. So you fly to Korea, fly home. First class as always, because nothing less is expected.

The moment the plane lifts into the sky, you immerse yourself in Jeon Jungkook.

Not the man— you don’t know the man. His brand. The name that moves markets, the face that has sold out entire fashion lines with a single post, the lives that have cleaned out ramen packets in seconds.

Your screen is a kaleidoscope of him, any campaigns, endorsements, past collaborations. Streetwear in one ad, high fashion in another. His presence shifts effortlessly from youthful rebellion to refined masculinity. He is everything Calvin Klein thrives on, raw and provocative.

He’s perfect for this.

You land in Incheon to a city humming beneath dark light. Seoul is quieter than New York, but no less alive with neon signs flicker against sleek glass buildings, the scent of rain and street food hugging the air.

A black car waits for you at the terminal, an assistant from Calvin Klein’s Seoul office greeting you with a polite bow. The ride into the city is smooth, the world shifting past in a blur of muted grays and bright LED screens. Your body is exhausted, but your mind stays sharp.

Tomorrow is the first meeting. You should be thinking about logistics. Contractual points that still need finalizing. The creative vision. The structure of the campaign. But as your car glides past Itaewon’s winding streets, past districts that are both familiar and foreign, you think of something else. You haven’t called home in a while.

You keep telling yourself you’ve been busy with deadlines, meetings, strategy decks stacked higher than your appetite for guilt, but deep down, you know the truth.

You haven’t called because you don’t know how to explain it. How success swallowed you whole, how you traded in your accent for sharper vowels, your mother’s cooking for room service, the comfort of home for the cold glass walls of boardrooms.

What would you even say?

Hi, I made it. I’m tired. I miss you. I don’t know who I am anymore.

It still is the least of your concerns when you arrive to your destination.

Your hotel is one of Seoul’s finest, very discreet, a haven of understated luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, and the quiet hum of a jazz playlist fills the suite when you enter.

You shrug off your coat, kicking off your heels, stretching out the tension of the flight. Your mind wanders a little as you pour your nightly glass of wine out; you will meet Jeon Jungkook tomorrow. It’s an odd feeling, seeing as you’ve met more celebrities in your life than you can count. You’d be a horrible liar , though, if you said you weren’t the least bit curious.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You wake before your alarm, the hush of Seoul stretching beyond the glass windows of your suite. The city moves gently at this hour before the rush, before the weight of the day settles onto its spine. For a moment, you allow yourself to breathe.

Discipline has always been your armor. You move through the motions with practiced ease, a cold rinse to shake off the last remnants of jet lag, a serum smoothed over skin (Laneige is the only right answer), a swipe of rouge on lips.

And today, more than ever, you need to be impeccable.

Your suit is white, tailored, almost impossible to ignore. It is a statement and a reminder that you are the architect of success.

However, when you step into the elevator, riding down to meet your driver, a flicker of something you haven’t felt in eons settles in your chest.

Nerves.

Not because you haven’t done this before. You have. You’ve met Hollywood A-listers, supermodels draped in couture, billionaires who own entire industries. You’ve handled them all.

It’s just… he does oddly remind you of home in some silly way.

You exit the hotel with the cool breeze of the morning air wrapping around you, the weight of the city’s movement already filling the space between you and the office. The car ride is smooth, twin reflections of New York’s controlled chaos and the quieter energy of Seoul. You barely notice the time passing as you mentally run through the agenda for the day, but there’s something about the looming meeting that sits heavier on your mind than it should.

The Calvin Klein Seoul office is small, nothing like the flagship headquarters in New York. The building is sleek but understated, a space that exists more for logistics than spectacle.

The moment you walk through the glass doors, the energy is so off. Your VP of International Marketing, a sharp-eyed executive named Daniel, greets you immediately. He is already speaking before you’ve fully crossed the threshold or even taken a breath of the office air.

“Everything’s set,” he says, handing you a sleek black folder. “Jungkook’s team will be here in twenty.”

You take the folder, skimming over the notes. “Any last-minute adjustments?”

“A few,” Daniel admits. “His schedule is tighter than expected, so we may need to shift some of the shoot days. And… his team wants final approval on every creative decision.”

You glance up at him, arching a brow. “They don’t trust us?”

“They trust us,” Daniel says, lips twitching. “They just trust him more.”

Fair. You figured they would play dirty at some point.

You nod, flipping the folder shut. “We’ll make it work.”

Daniel studies you for a beat, then smirks. “You nervous?”

You don’t hesitate. “No.”

You’re not. Not exactly. But as you settle into the conference room, as the clock ticks down to his arrival, you can’t shake the deadweight sitting on your chest. There’s not really a reason to be nervous, but suddenly, the fact that you sit at the head of the desk taunts you. It feels too official,, like every choice you’ve ever made has led to this exact chair, under these lights, and now everyone’s watching.

Daniel chuckles, stepping in behind you. “No need to act cool about it. I mean, dude is literally the most famous guy out there right now.”

You glance up at him. “Right,” you reply, settling into a chair at the table. “Do I give off fangirl vibes?”

“Fair play,” Daniel admits with a smirk. “It is also just business. He’s a client like any other.”

You raise an eyebrow, his words hanging in the air. “Sure,” you say, but something about the way you says it doesn’t quite feel right.

Daniel leans against the conference table, watching you with an expression that borders on amusement “So,” he muses, “are you ready to meet him, or are we keeping up this whole pretend you don’t care act the entire time?”

You shoot him a flat look, arms crossed. “I don’t pretend.”

He smirks. “Right. You just happen to be checking your watch every five seconds like we’re waiting for the President of South Korea.”

You exhale sharply, smoothing out an invisible crease in your sleeve. “You know I don’t care about the celebrity. I care about if my boss is happy.”

Daniel hums, unconvinced. “Riiiiight.” He tilts his head, watching you for another beat before flipping open a portfolio. “Alright, boss, walk me through it one more time. We’re running with the—“

Before he can finish, a soft knock at the door interrupts. The secretary peeks her head in, voice all smooth and professional. “He’s here.”

The words settle over the room. Daniel straightens up, giving you one last knowing glance before both of you move toward the head of the conference table. Your posture is perfect, composed, the picture of an executive who has done this a hundred times. Yet, for some reason, your palms are a little sweaty.

The door opens. A quiet hum of conversation drifts in first, footsteps soft against polished floors. And then, he steps through.

The first thing you notice is that he is not what you expected. Or maybe, he is exactly what you expected. Tall, poised, effortlessly self-assured. He moves like someone accustomed to attention, yet unaffected by it, a presence that doesn’t need to demand the room because it already bends to him.

He is dressed in black from head to toe. Black jeans, a crisp button-up slightly unfastened at the top, revealing the barest hint of a toned chest beneath the collar. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing a canvas of tattoos that swirl down one of his arms. Dark hair falls just over his brows, parted slightly. His skin is flawless, his lips full and plush, but it’s his round eyes that capture you first.

He has piercings, small silver hoops glinting in his ears, the metal just barely catching the light. And then, as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, you notice it, the piercing there, too.

You inhale, the moment stretching far too long.

Jungkook’s team follows behind him, a carefully curated group of managers, assistants, and legal representatives. They all exude efficiency, dressed in business casual

Jungkook is not corporate. He is the complete fucking polar opposite of it. And yet, as he steps forward, his expression shifts, a polite smile.

He greets everyone kindly, taking the time to nod toward the executives flanking the room, shaking hands, offering soft pleasantries.

You are still staring. For the first time in your career, you cannot decide if the man standing before you is a masterpiece to be marketed or a storm brewing.

You need to get a grip on reality.

Jungkook’s gaze is assessing, but you don’t let it linger. Years of discipline have trained you to absorb impact, analyze it, and move forward. So you shift your attention to the team standing behind him, your posture sharpening as you step forward.

“Good morning,” you say smoothly, extending a hand to the first of his representatives. “I appreciate you all taking the time to meet today.”

His manager steps forward first, shaking your hand firmly. “Of course. We’ve been looking forward to this partnership.”

One by one, you go through the motions, firm grips, polite smiles, nods exchanged. These are the gatekeepers, the ones who make the real decisions behind the scenes. You commit each of their names to memory, cataloging their expressions, their temperaments.

You turn lastly to Jungkook, your expression unreadable. His lips are still curled in a faint smile, but you keep your own face neutral. Instead, you bow, just a crisp nod of acknowledgment.

"Jeon Jungkook-ssi," you say, voice poised. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

When you straighten, you see it, the flicker of amusement crossing his face. He tilts his head, tongue pressing briefly against the inside of his cheek before speaking. “The bow? That’s formal. Are we at a company dinner?”

A few quiet chuckles from his team. You refuse to laugh. Your expression remains steady, composed. “It’s standard when meeting someone for the first time.”

Jungkook watches you for a beat longer, as if testing to see if he can break through that calm exterior. But when you don’t waver, he simply lets out a quiet hmm, not quite disappointed or impressed.

“Now, let’s get started.” You step toward the table, signaling the meeting’s shift into motion. “We have a lot to go over, and I want to make sure we’re aligned on the creative direction before we finalize schedules.”

Jungkook’s team follows, the atmosphere shifting from introductions to strategy.

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” you continue, placing a sleek, black folder on the table, “this campaign is projected to be one of Calvin Klein’s biggest of the year. Our goal isn’t just to market a collection, we want to shape a cultural moment. With Jungkook’s presence, we have the ability to move beyond traditional advertising and into something far more influential.”

You feel Jungkook’s gaze on you, but you don’t acknowledge it. Instead, you focus on his team, keeping your voice measured and confident. “I know negotiations took time, but I want to personally express my excitement for this collaboration. We’re not here to simply slap a face on some storefronts… we’re here to build something iconic.”

Jungkook leans back in his chair, arms resting casually against the armrests. “Iconic, huh?”

You glance at him for a second. “That’s the standard.”

The meeting stretches into deep discussions and strategic analysis, the campaign unfolding across the polished mahogany of the conference table. You lead with precision, breaking down creative direction, discussing visual aesthetics, mapping out timelines with a ruthless efficiency.

Jungkook listens. Not just politely, not just because he has to, but the man actually listens.

You notice it in the way his eyes sharpen when you speak, the occasional flick of his gaze to the proposal documents, the way he leans forward slightly when something actually interests him.

“So, to sum it all up,” you continue, flipping a page, “this campaign will lean into Calvin Klein’s signature branding but with a more modernized edge. We’re emphasizing raw masculinity, effortless sensuality—”

“Effortless?” Jungkook interrupts smoothly in a teasing tone. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

You look up. “You disagree?”

He tilts his head, considering. “I wouldn’t call it effortless.”

His voice is casual, but something in it makes the room halt slightly. You set your pen down. “Then what would you call it?”

Jungkook lets the silence breathe, holding your gaze a second longer than necessary. His team shifts slightly, waiting for his response. He smiles “Intentional.”

You hold his gaze for a moment before nodding. “Fair point.”

His lips twitch, like he wasn’t expecting you to concede so easily. But before the exchange lingers, you move forward. “We’ll finalize creative direction by next week. In the meantime, we’ll align schedules for fittings and shoot dates…”

By the time lunch rolls around, the energy in the room loosens slightly. It’s quite clear everyone is exhausted and would rather be two courses deep into a meal now. Jungkook’s team begins gathering their things, murmuring about reservations at a nearby restaurant. Daniel gives you a glance, knowing better than to invite you along.

You never take breaks.

As the last few executives file out, you remain in your seat, flipping through campaign notes, already highlighting sections for revision. The door closes behind them, leaving you alone in the quiet of the conference room.

You barely have a minute to yourself before a soft knock echoes through the space. You glance up, expecting Daniel, but instead… Jungkook.

He lingers in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans. His expression is unreadable, but he’s unmistakably casual in the way he stands there, like he has all the time in the world. “Mind if I come in?”

You hesitate. You have no idea why. It’s not that uncommon to be friendly with the campaign faces. You actually really liked working with Kendall Jenner, with her even inviting you to her home in Calabasas.

You study him for a moment, the way he leans against the doorframe, his presence too large for the quiet of the conference room. With bated breath, you gesture toward the chair across from you. “Suit yourself.”

Jungkook steps inside, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing in the empty space. His gaze flickers over the neatly stacked papers, the highlighted notes, the sleek silver pen in your hand.

“You don’t take breaks?” He questions innocently, lowering himself into the chair.

“I don’t have time for them. And I assume you don’t either, considering you’re here instead of at lunch with your team,” You retort.

Jungkook hums, tilting his head slightly. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d actually crack a smile once everyone left.”

A slow, teasing grin tugs at his lips. “So far, not looking too good.”

You exhale through your nose, unimpressed. “Was there something you needed?”

Jungkook leans back, the crisp fabric of his shirt stretching over his frame. He looks at you, not in the way men usually do, not with arrogance or expectation, but with a calculated curiosity. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

Great. You have an observer on your hands.

You blink once. “I don’t have to like you. Not in my job description, unfortunately. ”

His grin widens, slow and deliberate. “So cold. I think I like it.”

Your jaw tenses, but only slightly. He catches it. Most people flinch under scrutiny, but you don’t. You don’t shift, don’t fumble, don’t drop your gaze. Instead, you meet his stare with the same measured indifference you give to 55-year old men.

“Flirting with me won’t get you special treatment.” Your voice is detached, cool as a cucumber.

Jungkook lets out a quiet laugh, “Who said I was flirting?”

Your lips press into a thin line.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, propping an elbow on the armrest, “I don’t expect special treatment. Just the best. And from what I’ve seen so far…” he nods toward your documents, “…you don’t settle for anything less either.”

You don’t reply, but he’s hit the mark. Jungkook studies you for another beat, his gaze dipping, taking you apart piece by piece and seemingly trying to understand what makes you tick.

You hate to admit it, but he’s sharper than you expected. Most people in his position come into these meetings as faces, not minds. They sign the contracts, smile for the cameras, let their teams do the thinking.

You click your pen once. “If that’s all, I have work to do.”

Jungkook watches you for a moment longer, then moves a tad closer, just slightly, enough for you to catch the faint scent of expensive cologne, something clean and subtly musky.

His voice dips lower, softer now, but no less assured. “Tell me, do you always bet on things you know you’ll win?”

Your fingers still against the table. You set your pen down with deliberate precision, tilting your head slightly. “Only when the stakes are worth it.”

Jungkook’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. The thing you’ll come to learn about Jungkook is this: the man cannot back down from a challenge. He loves games. Always has

It’s how he got here in the first place. Grit, obsession, the refusal to lose. Every accolade, every headline, every billboard was earned not just through talent, but by the sheer thrill of the chase.

Truth be told, he’s a little.. intrigued, in some weird way. To put it in even more cliche terms, you look like trouble.

And… well, Jungkook has always had a thing for playing with fire.

｡･:*:･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

[flametrashiraarchive]

Succor 2

Muzan x GN!reader

Content warnings: oral sex, anal fingering, prostate milking, profanity, Muzan Kibutsuji.

NSFW MDNI.

Part 1

Follow up drabble to Part 1

Taglist: @hiraethsdesires @verose-tb @blamedbisexual @tsukiran

Muzan was livid. One of his upper ranks had fallen for the first time in more than a century, and the remaining demons of his so-called elite class were nothing more than pathetic fools, serving him with nothing but disappointment. 

He let Gyokko's severed head plummet to the platform below, taking grim satisfaction from the wet thud it made when it landed. Hantengu yelped in fear, Akaza flinched, and Douma’s perpetual smile faded. Nothing could quell Muzan’s rage. Nothing. 

"Muzan," you whispered from beneath his desk. He hadn’t known you were there, and your sudden appearance was nothing short of disarming.

You were his most depraved and alluring creation; a demon who was repulsed by the consumption of human flesh, but who garnered strength from Muzan's own fluids. And what strength it was. His breath caught as your hand slowly worked its way up his thigh.

Surely you couldn't still be hungry? You'd already sucked him dry not two hours ago.

And yet, as the fools groveled below, whimpering apologies and empty promises, your hands went to the fastening of his trousers and deftly undid it. 

"Stop that," he hissed through his teeth, glowering at your pretty face. "Cease at once, you infernal slut. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a mee–"

A shuddering breath escaped Muzan's throat as you took out his cock and used the very tip of your tongue to tease his opening. 

Oh he could have torn your head off for such insubordination, and perhaps he should have, but as his knees buckled and he was forced to brace himself on the edge of his desk, he couldn't bring himself to stop you.

He fought to regain his composure as your hot, wet mouth surrounded his rapidly hardening cock and he tried to keep his voice level as he addressed the upper ranks. “I’d advise you all to act with more urgency from here on out. I suppose you’re not entirely at fault for your inadequacies.”

You swirled your tongue around the head of his cock and the veins in his forehead began to throb. He raised his voice once more to address the demons. “I’ve been too lenient with you because you’re upper ranks.”

He chanced a look down at you, and immediately regretted it. You gazed up at him with tears shimmering in your eyes as his dick grew to tease and nudge the back of your wretched throat. Oh, you were an abomination, a vulgar disgrace to demonkind, but he could not walk away from you. For all his power, he was devastatingly weak when it came to you and your depraved mouth.

He had to end the meeting.

“Gyokko, once you’ve confirmed that information to be true, you are to head over there with Hantengu at once."

No sooner had he finished speaking than a partition closed the pair of you off from the upper ranks, and he could finally let loose the growl caged behind his teeth. “You will be the death of me,” he hissed. “How many times must I feed you, my greedy slut?”

You simply sucked him harder in response. 

"Curse you." His legs trembled beneath him; his weakness and helplessness only adding to his fury. 

“Oh, fine, you licentious leech,” he snapped, putting his hands on the back of your head and thrusting into your mouth. 

He pumped his hips, brutally fucking your face as you gagged and drooled over his cock, your eyes rolling as your tongue lapped at the precum weeping from his slit. With every thrust he reclaimed a little more power, a little of his tattered dignity. His toes curled inside the butter-soft leather of his shoes as exquisite pleasure built and spilled over.

With a grunt he unloaded down your throat. Your greedy tongue lapped at his cum as a deep groan burst from his throat. “Yes… swallow it all. There. Now I truly have nothing left to give you. Leave me be.”

His eyes widened as you yanked his trousers down entirely, exposing his backside. 

“What are you– Oh I should destroy you,” he groaned as heat prickled along his cheeks and the top of his chest. He released his grip on your head to try to pull his trousers back up. “How dare you, how–” 

His blood-red eyes widened. Your strength was truly astounding as you stood, catching him off guard and spinning him around before you placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the desk. The song of smashing glass and falling equipment drowned out his gasp. 

“You dare–!” Muzan’s protest died on his tongue as you slipped your finger past the barrier of his lips and laid it flat on his tongue. His pupils narrowed to reptilian slits as indignation and arousal battled for dominance. He could bite your wretched finger off– in fact, he should have, but he found himself simply moaning around it as you lowered your head to take his cock into your mouth once more. 

He licked the underside of your digit as his eyelids fluttered.

“Mmhh–” he sucked your finger, biting back a mewl as you pulled it free from his lips. “What are–” His body tensed as your finger delved between the plush cheeks of his ass, circling his hole, lubricating it with his own saliva. 

You simply raised your eyes to meet his frantic gaze. 

“You aren’t… fffuck.” His head lolled back as you continued your ministrations, your moan reverberating around his cock as you pushed past the taught ring of muscle to finger the soft flesh within. 

He was helpless then; eyes wide, mouth agape around a silent cry, chest heaving as you fingered his hole. 

“Damn… you…” he choked out, voice cracking as he lifted his legs higher, allowing you to press deeper. You hit a spot deep within him which made him see stars, “Oh… ohhpleasepleaseplease fuuuck…”

You seemed obscenely pleased as his cock started to weep, and you greedily swallowed down every drop which spilled out of him. Never in over a millenia had he been treated with such disrespect and made to feel so utterly helpless. He whined as he bore down on your degenerate fingers, furious as hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

Bringing up his arms to shield his face from your gaze, Muzan let his tears soak into the sleeves of his shirt as he rocked his hips, fucking himself on your fingers, taking you deeper.

"More, curse you. Another."

You obliged your king's request, pushing another finger past the barrier of his hole, scissoring them to widen him. His eager body responded to your touch, allowing you to push deeper and massage that exquisite spot deep within him.

His cock erupted onto your tongue as you milked him, pulsing pleasure and heat consuming him as he choked out your name. On and on, the pleasure consumed him, seemingly never ending. His mouth fell open, his lips drawn back to expose his fanged teeth as his groans turned to frantic whimpers. “I can’t I can’t I can’t I don’t… Gods, curse… you… I… oh fuck oh Gods please. Please. Please~”

His orgasm exploded then, sending sparks of scalding pleasure shooting throughout his body as you groaned in satisfaction, your wicked tongue lapping up every drop of his seed. His hands grasped at anything he could find, tearing pages from his notebooks and sending vials of ingredients flying from the desk.

“Mm,” you crooned as he lay on the desk, gasping for air, his body still pulsing with the aftershocks of your torment. “Such a good master, cumming so much for me.”

His crimson eyes widened at your praise, a muscle in his jaw leaping as he bit down the whine pressing at the back of his throat. “Silence.”

Forcing a deeper breath, he placed a hand on the back of your head and flexed his fingers in a muted show of affection. "Mmh… curse you." 

You were by far the best and the worst demon he had ever created, and in that moment, he would gladly keep you by his side for eternity. 

----------

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, you can check out my other fics on my masterlist

[pricklyjim]

I'm pretty new here so I might have missed it. So Megatron was a sparkend? His sire depleating his spark for him. Then Megatron was reborn correct?

[MEGATRON LORE]

Hello! Welcome!

I haven’t addressed this sneaky little detail yet, so i’ll do that real quickly.

The short answer is yes!

He is a spark-end and reborn cybertronian

however this is the long story/answer to that question if interested! 👇👇

let’s start at the beginning with Megatron’s “birth.”

His Birth into the world starts with a death, that being one of his Sires.

He was born a “spark-end,” a cursed name given to those created when a sire gives up their spark to bring them into the world.

nonetheless he grew up raised by his remaining sire, who worked tirelessly to give him the best life possible after losing her life long conjunx.

[FYI, sire and mentor are both gender neutral terms]

as Megatron matures into mid age, he looks up to his sire, he truly loves her, and wishes more for her.

He sees how hard she must work compared to the wealthy, higher-caste Cybertronians, and he hates it, he wants her to have a better life.

So he starts writing: books, poems, songs, anything, everything.

all about how the lower caste deserve dignity and joy just like the elites, however, His writings soon catch the attention of a certain Prime, who sees him as a challenge to the comfortable status quo.

In retaliation, Megatron is punished by the government: his memories are wiped, his past erased, and he is forcibly “reborn” into a new body.

gone are any traces of what he may have looked or sounded like before.

and to make things worse, said prime, throws him into the pits, a brutal place where those who commit serious crimes are forced to fight.

now stronger, however, built to fight, Megatron’s rage, sadness, and anger, are channeled into fighting for his life, and eventually over many battles, he becomes more hardened, broken, eventually becoming known all over cybertron as the ruthless silver gladiator.

:) that’s the long story!!

his back story was actually semi inspired by this song and other megatron origins of course

[angelremnants]

ㅤㅤ

⠀⠀

SERIES

• A TALES OF...⠀— A collection of lore-bound but not necessarily sequential ficlets featuring our favorite Asgardian brothers, packed with action, magic, a lot of tension and, of course, romance.

• HIS FOR THE SEASON⠀— In which you once reigned at the pinnacle of Asgard’s elite, only to fall and leave behind nothing but hushed whispers and fading echoes of your name. Loki, the enigmatic prince, fared no better with his exile shrouded in scandal, reducing him to little more than a ghost haunting the opulent corridors of the court.

But as a new Courting Season begins, both of you return, bound by a fabricated betrothal with ambitions far greater than love. In this unlikely alliance, you seek not only to reclaim the splendor that was once yours but to restore the honor and wealth that fate so cruelly stole. And your ascent to glory begins with seizing the coveted title of Amber of the Season.

⠀⠀

ㅤㅤ

FICS

• OF STORMBOUND HEARTS

"In the midst of a storm of emotions and unspoken longing, two souls collide in a moment that blurs the line between desire and fear. The tension between them disguised under quarrels has been building for months, and when it finally unravels, neither can escape the pull of what they’ve both denied for so long. But as their connection deepens, so do the questions. Will they be able to handle the storm they've created, or will it consume them?"

• A CHRISTMAS TO CHERISH, A YULE TO REMEMBER — Loosely connected to the A Tales Of series' universe.

"When tasked with organizing a holiday cultural exchange between Midgard and New Asgard, you face clashing traditions and unexpected connections. To foster goodwill, you plan a hybrid celebration that blends Christmas with Yule, inviting world leaders and dignitaries to experience Asgard's unique customs. However, hosting off-worlders, especially a skeptical Loki, proves challenging. His sarcasm only adds more tension as sparks begin to fly between you, testing your growing connection. As Yule and Christmas traditions collide, an unexpected kiss under the mistletoe might just be the season's most surprising twist."

• SWEATER WEATHER

"Conveyed in a rented beach house stationed on the Californian west coast, a SHIELD mission brings Loki and you together. What starts as an investigation into strange energy spikes uncovers discoveries tied to the ocean—and to each other. As you work together, the line between professionalism and growing attraction blurs even more than before. Can your newfound connection withstand the tides of duty and desire, or is this still water before the tempest?"

• IN THE GRAVITY OF YOU

"You never expected to cross paths with a god, let alone have your destiny tangle with his. Tasked with retrieving the Tesseract for S.H.I.E.L.D., you quickly learn you're in over your head after getting extraordinary powers in an unfortunate occurrence. Your fate is no longer in your hands, and the stone, the source of your connection, seem to have sinister abilities. Its power will either bond you together... or tear you apart."

• BETWEEN STRENGTH & STYLE

"Loki’s probationary stint with the Avengers takes a surprising turn when Thor insists on dragging him to the team’s fluorescent-lit gym—a place he deems far beneath his dignity. His disdain shifts the moment you stride in with effortless confidence, transforming the mundane gym into your personal runway, commanding the room and worse, directly challenging his ego.

Determined not to be overshadowed, Loki initiated a playful competition, vying to outshine you as the gym’s reigning fashionista. Yet, what began as irritation soon evolved into intrigue—and an electric chemistry taking place between you and forcing him to confront not only your undeniable allure but also his own battle for self-control.

The only question left was: how many Fridays would pass before one of you finally caves in?"

PARTㅤ⠀ONE . TWO⠀(18+) . THREE⠀(18+) .

• GIRLS' NIGHT OUT, LOKI'S NIGHT IN⠀(18+) — Social Media Alternate Universe.

"Girls’ night was going great—until Loki decided to make it his personal mission to ruin it, being hellbent on pulling you home. It’s a battle of wills, but let’s face it: the God of Mischief always gets his way."

• THE EMOJI CONUNDRUM — Social Media Alternate Universe.

"In the middle of a very serious meeting, Loki decides it’s the perfect time to attempt to seduce you with a series of cryptic emoji messages that, unsurprisingly, make no sense."

• YOU'RE BANNED !⠀(18+) — Social Media Alternate Universe.

"After an ill-timed and highly inappropriate comment made during a meeting debrief, Loki finds himself slapped with the ultimate punishment—a strict sex ban put in place by you. And sadly for him, you’re enjoying his suffering way too much to free him from it."

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SERIES

• ROLL CALL

“The biting winters of 1943 paled in comparison to the frozen hearts of soldiers, weary and broken by the unrelenting call of war. For men burdened by despair, the burn of alcohol was the only warmth they knew.

Sergeant Barnes lived for one purpose: to stand by his best friend’s side, no matter where the battlefield led them. But a chance encounter at a dimly lit bar near the military camp changes everything. A young woman, bold yet gentle, awakens something in him—a spark long buried beneath years of frost and pain.”

CHAPTERㅤ⠀ONE . TWO . THREE . FOUR .

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FICS

• HEAT WAVES

"After years of manipulation by Hydra, Bucky Barnes must find his place in a world that has long moved on without him. With you, an independent and unwavering agent by his side, he reluctantly embarks on a transformative journey of recovery in Wakanda. Amid the kingdom's vibrant culture, your connection to Bucky deepens as he confronts personal demons and embrace the healing process. Bucky learns to welcome the warmth of new beginnings, understanding that even after winter's cold grip, the sun can shine through."

PARTㅤ⠀ONE . TWO . THREE⠀(18+) .

• LATE NIGHT CONFESSIONS — Social Media Alternate Universe.

"It’s 3AM, you’re drunk and deep in Tony’s stash of expensive liquor. Naturally, the best course of action is to text Bucky—who, despite it all, always picks up."

• FLIRTING AFTER DARK — Social Media Alternate Universe, follow-up of Late Night Confessions.

"In the aftermath of the wild night, you're left dealing with the embarrassing fallout of your drunken behavior. You did your best to avoid facing it, but it seems that Bucky has other plans and refuses to let you forget the bold words you spoke."

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FICS

• AMERICAN WEDDING

“Steve Rogers is throwing himself into mission after mission, trying to outrun the weight of his past—his unresolved feelings for Sharon and the lingering memories of Peggy. But when his commanding officers force him to take a break, Steve ends up on a staycation in Barbados. What begins as a forced respite soon becomes a much-needed escape as he unexpectedly finds healing, peace, and even a connection in the warmth of the Caribbean sun. Steve learns to let go of the past and finally breathe again, even if it’s just for a short while.”

• CLASSIFIED DISTRACTION⠀(18+) — Social Media Alternate Universe.

"Steve usually prides himself on his self-control—that is, until you decide to put it up to the test with a single and devastatingly timed picture of you in lingerie. Trapped in a government meeting, he’s forced to choose between professionalism and the growing need to grill you and put you back in your place. Spoiler alert: the meeting won’t last much longer."

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FICS

• STUCK WITH YOU

“The last thing you wanted was to be trapped in a room with a person you didn't know, much less be forced to team up with them. But thanks to your best friend's meddling, you now find yourself headed for a peculiar blind date, paired with someone who’s anything but a stranger. You swore you’d moved on. He said it was for the best. But maybe you were never meant to let each other go.”

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angelremnants ©️ 2024/2025. All rights reserved. Do not repost, reproduce, or distribute without explicit permission.

[kiwanopie]

A Lucky Find.

Pure luck, isn’t it? (Geto Suguru x fem!sorcerer!Reader)

cw: yandere if you squint. mention of misogyny and inappropriate work place relationships, graphic descriptions of curses and body horror, death by mutilation involving a curse (Not you), mention of religion, only specifics about reader is that she’s visibly very attractive and may have long hair (no descriptors though, it could be a lace) Suguru is out of his mind. You will not be called a monkey in this one.

wc: 3.9k

You’re not a very talkative assistant.

Granted sometimes you’re inclined to wonder if talking would’ve made so much of a difference to the position you’ve been put in, but you’ve never been a particularly choosy assistant either. You’re great at handling quick business, the calls your boss can’t be bothered to take - studious in your evening planning and you can quick work a coffee run like nobody's business. — You don’t complain about the thin heels they put you in, or the pencil skirts. Mired businessmen with filthy smirks and wondering eyes, or the routine baby talk you get from your degenerate boss. You don’t blink an eye at it. - You sit when you’re told to sit and bark when Mr. Minoru decides to hold that pretty little bone over your head.

“You could use a bonus, huh?”

Today it’s a back rub.

You’re silent as your nimble fingers start to press little groves in his upper back, impassive when he groans. Mr. Minoru, your boss, is a very rich man. He’s the successor of a retired tycoon who was once the successor of another and so forth. He’s an amalgamation of power and fortune and a small legion of nepotism babies that regularly walk in through those mahogany doors just ahead of his desk. An investor, you think. Most conversations he has are about money and the best way to double it; fewer are the ones where he’s actually taking the time out of his schedule to distribute it.

It’s all elite talk. Big men following big men following a perv who believes he’s god. Long outstretched legs that extend as he relaxes himself in his seat and hopes that the movement is enough to encourage you to start on his shoulders.

You like to think you got this job out of pure luck. Met the right man at the right time and stumbled over the deal of a lifetime all for the small cost of a little bit of your dignity. — Not like it was much of a trade from your part time job busing tables at that high-end restaurant. Being yelled at by bratty celebrities at a fraction of the price and coming home smelling reminiscent of a meat locker. Now you’re standing on the top floor of a penthouse suite. Smelling of expensive perfume that your boss totally didn’t break worker/boss relation code for and looking down at the entirety of Tokyo from its bay windows.

Pure luck.

The creature hooked to the upper side of his shoulder unfastens its teeth with a firm graze of your fingers. The steam it emits as it fizzles away is sour.

Mr. Minoru has a pension for starting fights with the wrong people, it seems. With bitter people - scornful people. People who hate him and can’t do anything about it, other than wish him harm or hex him in some way. — Worst are the people who don’t hate him, who envy him. Step into his office with painted smiles and clenched teeth. Who curse his name the moment they leave and leave you to deal with these little “bugs.”

Your nose twitches as its rotten smell encombers. For a moment your pretty face is twisted up in a scowl.

The massages started from an offhand graze of your fingers during a dinner at your old job. Pretty little waitress bending over him in that little work dress and running your finger down his felted coat. You apologize for your familiarity, someone must’ve spilled something on his jacket. ~ But the weight on his back is gone from just that little touch and now he’s offering you a job. You don’t regularly make a habit of helping those you’ve already deemed “afflicted.” But the fucker making goo trails on his back at the time was just disgusting enough to hinder your train of thought, and there’s no way you could’ve gone through your shift without reviling every time you passed his table.

So, now you’re his assistant - and today it’s just a back rub. Thankfully not a request to play with his hair and try not to cringe at the way he shutters from it. A subtle pat on the cheek for his good luck kiss, or a request to sit on his lap while he tells you a story he doesn’t care if you’re listening to. Because you’re quiet.

His not talkative, non-fussy, no complaints assistant.

Like always he fills the empty air in place of your silence. “Ah. By the way, princess. We’ve got a guest coming around after lunch. A real traditional fella. So, we’ll need to be on our best behavior,”

“Apparently he’s got some sort of business opportunity for me in exchange for a few investments,” He sighs when your fingers dip a little under his collar. “Says that in his big fuckin’ haori. Probably cost a few thousand bucks,”

Mr. Minoru shifts his shoulders under your firm touches. “To be completely honest, I don’t really know about it aside from the gag of seeing him in person again. Guy has this weird energy about himself that gives me the creeps. — Says he’s avant-garde. — I just think he’s a weird fuckin’ guy.”

“But,” The exhale he lets out is tempered and whisky tinted, clears out the fresh space in his chest that usually frees up when you’ve got your hands on him. “My old man likes ‘em. Says he’d be good for my health if I kept him around. At the very least build some sorta relationship with him.”

“Too bad my health’s in tip-top shape! Eh, doll-baby?” Minoru twists his head to flash you an expensive smile. Faintly defined cheekbones turning rosy when you return it like you know you’re supposed to. “Got my little guru at my side!”

And your simper, although gentle, is forced. Distantly you wonder if you’re the reason these bugs have become so habitual.

——-

This man is very ill.

Though he walks in with his head held high and a particular spring in his step, your diagnosis is that he must be terminal. He must be diseased and irremediable. In a constant state of agony and so stricken with unwellness that he can’t even think straight. You’ve seen your fair share of “bugs” and rabid disfigured animals that grow out of their hosts like fungus. Some that trail behind like lost children with broken crackling legs - a stench that only accompanies the open wounds whose maggots reach out so helplessly. Disturbing things. For all of it you’ve seen, you’re lucky to say that those cases are few and far in between.

But this,

It has many hands and many faces.

Each accompanied by its own set of teeth. Curling lips that stutter as they rise, etched in lipstick and gum; you find mint leaves hidden in the valley of its tongue, coiling as it softly sings. Watching from afar as it hobbles on its haunches like a drunken man, or of fawn newly grazed. It is steady - and constantly moving. It buzzes like a million bees and yet the man standing next to it is seemingly unaffected.

And so are you.

Your gentility becomes you as you politely bow for the man who you’ve so gracefully led to Mr. Minoru’s office. A practiced curtsy is usually enough to get your usual guests commenting under their nose at your bosses taste in assistant’s, but this man is quiet as he walks past you. So above your head that it almost feels like he doesn’t even know you exist. And that feeling is… off putting to say the least.

You close the door behind him as your boss starts on introductions.

“Ah, so you’ve met my beautiful assistant!” He reaches out his hand. “Minoru. Nice to meet you.”

The genuinity in the man’s smile fastens his eyes into slits as he steps forward to return the shake. “Geto, likewise.”

“Geto, huh? I heard the old man sent you for an investment proposition. My guess is it’s something… traditional?” Minoru gestures toward his garbs.

He’s somewhat clinical in his attempt to look lighthearted, but the sigh he blows out feels trusting. “So this isn’t selling “contemporary” huh?”

Minoru laughs and the thing beside him whimpers.

Your fingers twitch against your work skirt.

You’re a distant shadow lingering behind the conversing men as you step to your post on the far side of the office wall, heels clicking quietly when you bend to fix yourself adjacent to Mr. Minoru’s desk. — You’re not expected to listen much to the conversation, or even understand the matters on which they talk about. Just straighten your back when your boss snaps his fingers and follow obediently when he coos an order.

But even if that weren’t the case, you’d say it’d be hard to pay any attention to anything other than whatever the fuck that is hunched beside the man standing just a few feet away. Singing quietly under its breath and repeating the tune like a prayer. Fearful, shaken, pleaful, dread inducing; overlapping in its many mouths. Your fingernails quietly scrape against each other in your attempt to remain neutral but from a keen eye you’re jarred. Disquietingly moving your eyes from the two men still talking adjacent from you and then it again.

It’s looking at you.

You force down a swallow when Minoru calls your name.

“Quiet thing, isn’t she?” Your boss comments amidst the conversation as you approach them. “Could almost forget she’s here if it weren’t for the eyecandy,”

You smile at him like he’s flattering you but it’s muscle memory. “Sir?”

“Gather up those papers from your desk over there, sweetpea. And hand it to the nice man.”

You almost don’t even wanna turn your back on it.

But against your own anxieties you do as you're told. Even with your nerves frayed as they are. You keep your posture as you hastily skirt to your desk and back across the room again. Nimble, slightly shaken fingers lowering to place it in Geto-san’s hand but he doesn’t acknowledge you even when you smile. Vacant eyes. Bored of you already. —- You don’t know if you should feel more offended or alarmed. But in your curtsy before backing away you decide to split the difference and go for disturbed.

Avant-garde. This guy just gives you the fuckin’ creeps.

He works in health, apparently. From what you’ve gathered in the continuing conversation, he’s a spiritual man who offers health by spiritual means. It’s not a very groundbreaking admission, especially from a man in traditional garb, but he assures that his practices have long surpassed ground theory and have been proven to guarantee actual results. From refractory diseases, mental illness, visible injury; his methods could completely eradicate the need for traditional medicine and take the health industry by storm.

But money is a long factor, longer in the doubtful and non-spiritual. “Non-worthy.” It sounds pointed the way he slips that in, but your red flags aren’t shared with your less than convinced boss.

“Spiritual healing sounds great and all, Geto buddy. But you’re directing services to a pretty biased market.” Minoru crosses one of his legs over the other from his perched position against his desk. “Even with the facts, the money’s in objectivity. You’d get more bang for your buck just saying any Yamada worth his salt can walk in and get rid a’ his sniffles for the right price. - Religion ‘ll just turn people off.”

Geto smiles patiently. “Ah, Minoru-san, we’re not religion based. Religion promotes powerlessness. Our services come from practical people.”

You watch as the creature messily swivels on its crooked legs when he invades its space by leaning back a little. “But to insert certain biases kind of sweetens the deal, doesn’t it? People like things that make them feel special. Even the most useless people should wanna prove themselves in some way, right?”

What a crooked way of thinking.

At your quiet displeasure the mass behind Geto wheezes painfully, wincing when you lock eyes with it. Its song pitches and warbles, chops a little like it’s weeping; but even in its effort to resume its discontent is palpable.

You could almost feel acknowledged by it. By its wandering eyes and its tightened misshapen shoulders. Almost as off put as you are from its spot in the middle of the room. The more you look at it, the more it starts to evoke pity. Even in its unsightliness, it looks misplaced and afraid. - Its song breaks like a cry for mercy and the closer you look at it the more recognizable its purpose becomes.

There are knots in its balmy skin so engorged they bleed and tear. Fabric mincing over fictional scabbing and prayer beads hanging out of its gashes. Every twitch it makes reverberates ricey out of rhythm beats akin to maracas and its song, as out of key as it is, is reverential. Powerlessness. Anodyne through faith. You barely find yourself pitying the afflictions of affected people but in the context of this conversation - it’s watering eyes; you feel empathetic toward this thing and by extension Geto-san.

You assume something awful must’ve started that way of thinking.

Should you even stick your neck out for this guy? You’ve dealt with bigger, more violent ones in any case. But this creature seems peaceful. Following faithfully on its hosts haunches as it waits patiently beside him. You’ll have to be fast and unflashy about it, hopefully the stench from that thing won’t make you hurl on impulse. But if not out of mercy, it would be nice to have it out of your line of vision.

Your eyes cross it again. It’s many eyes well with anguish. You decide that at your next opportunity you’ll get rid of it promptly.

As luck would have it Mr. Minoru’s personal phone rings.

He’s quick in his apologies as he fishes it out of his pocket. Passing a smile to Geto as he quickly bows and makes the few long strides it takes to step out of the door and into the hallway, and a few short snaps in your direction as he points you to the concessionaires reserved for his clients near the door.

You’re practiced as you dip for the little fridge on your left, carefully sliding out a glassed bottle of water from the door and a plastic bag of sliced apples.

“Would you like a snack while you wait, Geto-san?”

He ignores you.

Through a quietly exasperated sigh does he slide his phone out of his hakama and pointedly decide not to acknowledge your awkward stance at the far end of the room. — You know he ignores you because the silence that otherwise permeates the spaciousness of your boss's suite is momentarily disrupted by the sound of your voice bouncing off the walls; followed again by that frigid silence.

This is the guy you’re trying to help.

Even so, your embarrassment is brushed aside in favor of making your way to the small coffee table between him and the other leather seat parallel to his. Thin pencil skirt riding a little as you take wide steps to the little spot that separates him from the empty seat - and you from the thin sliver of carpet standing between he and the now quivering mass.

You bend to place the treats gingerly beside him.

And when you rise you reach for it.

There are practiced fingers circling around your wrist before you can even touch it.

Your fear is potent enough to turn its broken hums into racking sobs as you freeze in his sudden grip. Firmly clasped onto you as he raises your arm over your head and forces you to jolt back with a stuttered breath. Faint greyed markings on the palm of your hand fade but they’re caught under his watchful eye, and through your shock you watch his expression switch.

From confusion, to intrigue, to pure excitement.

Your shock teeters on horror as his pupils dilate. “Now, just what were those pretty fingers planning on doing?”

He seems to revel at the sheer bewilderment that colors in your pretty face from where you nervously stare up at him. Doe eyes lit up by headlights, and the radiative heat of suddenly being this close to his predatory gaze. You stammer. “Wh-? Y-You know it’s-“

“Brought it with me, didn’t I?” He speaks lowly as he circles his thumb over your wrist. “Can’t say I don’t appreciate your concern though, sweetheart.”

You shrink. The absurdity of intentionally carrying a burden like this is as mind boggling as it is chilling. Dread inducing, even. With the kind of bad juju that thing emits there’s no other reason to purposefully let it fester beside you than for motives deeply depraved. Deeply disturbed. The way the air around him murkens and electrifies, and a glint in his eye that makes you feel like prey. — He’s looking at you like you’re dinner right now. And something about that feels trillions of times more frightening than any typical rubbernecking.

After being treated like a ghost by this man this whole time. Now he’s looking at you like you’re a slab of meat spread out for him. Succulent and tenderized, pliant under his fingers. Your soft eyes are rigid with fear as his other hand reaches for you blithely, larger fingers dipping in your loose hair and scooping it gently forward. You glance at it from the corner of your eye.

Smoke curls around his palm.

You suppress with a quiet intake of breath.

Geto-san’s cheeks pinken as he gleefully smiles, emboldened by a genuine tinge of ardor. You do your best not to flinch but it’s futile, his chilled fingers consolingly caress your face as he tuts; and gazes at you like he’s committing you to memory.

“Be patient for me, yeah? I’ll be done in a minute.”

You can’t even begin to guess what that means.

But before you can inquire he’s shushing you with a finger up to his lips. Playfully shooing you away as Mr. Minoru’s footsteps patter closer, and you clumsily re-fit yourself into your professional mask.

“Sorry ‘bout that, pal. Forgot about another meeting I was supposed to attend a little earlier,” He pockets his phone. “No one’s fault.”

He leans against the cliff of his desk where Geto-san’s planted himself again. Minoru glances at the unopened bag of apple slices. “Ah, _____, baby. You were supposed to hand him the good stuff.”

“I’m so sorry, sir.”

“No worries.” Geto laughs airily. “How could anything look nearly as appetizing when you’ve got an assistant like that walking around?”

Your ears burn as Mr. Minoru snorts in kind. “Yeah, fair enough,”

He rolls up his sleeves. “A’right, princess. How bout you hop on over to my lounge and break open the good brandy for my guest and I. Bring us the crystal set. Can you do that?”

—-

The decanter in your hand falls with a dull thump.

There’s no… logical explanation for what you’re looking at right now — Who you’re looking at right now. In any other circumstance deep purples would be expected. Blotched boysenberries and flossy reds, dotted with strained blues. You’d expect tearing - bleeding, audible ginger snaps of tendons and extended bone. A scream even, no matter how silent; all are logically expected. Death is logically expected.

But seeing your boss stretched out like leather, not a full five minutes after leaving him alone with this man, is not.

Your eyes frantically skirt over your boss's heaving corpse from your exposed position at his closing entrance. Watching in repulsed terror as his skin tears and bruises, familiar prayer beads falling out of his flesh like stuffing. - His eyes are rolled agonizingly into the back of his head, mouth opened in a scream. His blood sizzles against the maple of his desk and you can do little but stare in horror.

You flinch as the mainline on his desk starts to go off but you’re no sooner cringing at the way his arm breaks just to reach for it. Bloody fingers pushing the receiver, and cheeks tearing just to respond.

His unchanged voice somehow makes it all the more horrifying. “Hi, Souza. Thanks for getting back to me,”

“Yeah, do me a favor,” You back into the door. “Route about ten million to Geto-san’s organization under investment. And be a dear and sign the invoice for me, would ya?”

You’re gonna be sick.

“So, you’re out of a job now, huh?” You nearly yelp.

Geto-san’s standing just over you. “I’ve got a pretty similar position opened up,” He says casually. “‘Wanna work for me?”

You can barely push out a word. Which, kind man that he is, helps you out by deciding for you. “Ah, Great! I can break you in on Sunday. Here’s my card.”

He smiles kindly as you hesitantly pluck the laminated card from his fingers. Looking at you under mirthful eyes that chill more than they comfort.

“If you’re worried about pay, I can give you double of whatever that monkey gave you. Maybe a little extra if you’re as good as he says you are.”

But before you can recoil at the thought of being stuck under the same kind of boss, with the extra caveat of being a psychopath; he adds with a hint of challenge. “That is, if you can get rid of our friend for us.”

You follow his glance to the creature wearing your boss like a hand puppet.

Do you even have a choice?

Geto-san watches with a keen eye as you warily approach the blinking, bleeding corpse behind your late boss’s desk. Heels clicking slowly against his wooden floors, skin prickling at the thought of even getting close to this thing let alone touch it. There’s a smell that you notice as you move closer. A rotten, discrepant smell that pushes as much as it pulls. Aging, airless skin, barreling toward cell death; only marginally slowed by the alkaline smell of embalming fluid. Too old. Too sour.

But there’s something about it that almost — Hypnotizes. Evokes a kind of nostalgia that almost completely disarms you. Church pews and goatskin, leather hardbacks under frilly gloves; and those damn prayer beads. You can almost hear your grandmother’s voice. The minty sweet taste of stale candies tinted by the perfume in her purse. ~ Watching worship but not understanding it. A contact high of conviction. Your boss’s blood spills and it means something sacred, something reverent. And the closer you get, the more that sacrifice feels for the better.

You flicker a glance in Geto-san’s direction. This guy had this shit on standby?

It’s clammy when your fingers finally graze its skin. Sweaty and twitching, like every touch is a pinched nerve; like every stroke stimulates. There’s movement under the first layer, a hissing under the second. It’s mania seeps off of it in droves and the more you linger on it, the more your stomach twists.

You draw back your hand and rub over the difference in texture.

The room is temporarily endowed with smoke at the snap of your fingers.

They’re both gone when the vapor quickly dissipates, blood formerly staining expensive maple now replaced with its originally polished shine. As well as his chair, his area rug, and any other evidence that could connote what truly horrific fate the man in question had suffered in this very room.

Which is enough to send Geto-san into an ecstatic flurry of applause. “H-Holy shit. Where have you been all my life?”

He’s more focused on the way the weight in your lips shift rather than that being because of a frown. Regardless, you’re still a picture despite it. “You’re gonna fit nicely. — My address is on the card. Come by nine? I’ll have breakfast ready by then.”

He turns with a relaxed lilt toward the exit. “You and I are gonna have a lot of fun.”

The door clicks as the lock disengages.

“Don’t make me come looking for you.”

reblogs are appreciated <3

[jollmaster]

(re)design trivia: Alastor's father

his name is Roy

tall, charming, with absolute ear for music

louisiana creole, approximately half-black; approximately, because no one knows how much non-white he is

it all started when wealthy french creole planter took young and beautiful black woman (she was brought to Louisiana from Senegal) as unofficial wife and gave their children from plaçage rights and inheritance

this family formerly owned a piece of land and was part of the local mixed-black elite (after Louisiana purchase in 1803, in time of segregation, they lost it, but retained remnants of former dignity)

he would have passed for a moorish somewhere in Malaga, but unfortunately he lived in the American South

seduced Alastor's mom when she was sixteen and half

died on hunt when son was six years old, but their kinship had a noticeable effect

Alastor still remembers that dad had dark hands, often went hunting, sang for him and played guitar for mom; Roy wasn't brilliant dad, but he was caring, loving and tried to be better

mother hid the fact that child's father wasn't white

CHARLIE'S GANG: Charlie, Vaggie, Angel Dust, Niffty, sir Pentious (and egg boiz), Cherri Bomb, Husk, Alastor (+ gang as humans)

HEAVEN: Adam, Eve, Lute, Emily, Sera

ADAM AND EVE'S CHILDREN: Cain, Abel, Seth, Awan, Azura

HELL: Lilith, Lucifer, Seviathan, Helsa, Razzle and Dazzle, Baxter

SINS: Asmodeus [Lust], Beelzebub [Gluttony], Satan [Wrath], Mammon [Greed] (and Fizz), Belphegor [Sloth]

LUCIFER'S WIVES: Eisheth Zenunim, Naamah, Agrat bat Mahlat

VEES: Vox, Valentino, Velvette

OVERLORDS: Zestial, Rosie, Carmilla Carmine (and her daughters, Odette and Clara), Flaming Skull Guy

FRIENDS AND RELATIVES: Mimzy, Arackniss, Molly, Alastor's mom

[tetheredfeathers]

The beach kiss as an act of defiance.

The beach kiss is not only a pivotal moment in Katniss and Peeta’s relationship but also a significant turning point for the entire nation.

Totalitarian governments, like President Snow’s regime, often seek to suppress love and hope because these emotions have the power to inspire resistance and undermine authority. In George Orwell’s 1984, romantic love is similarly suppressed to maintain control over citizens. Love is a threat to such regimes because it redirects loyalty away from the state and towards one another.

When Katniss accepts her love for Peeta on her own terms, she subverts the Capitol’s carefully constructed narrative. The Hunger Games are designed to be a spectacle that instills fear and reinforces the Capitol’s power. The tributes are meant to be mere pawns in a deadly game, stripped of their humanity and reduced to savagery. But Katniss and Peeta refuse to conform to these roles, instead displaying love and solidarity in the face of death. To the people of Panem, they become more than just a couple; they embody a symbol of resistance and a reminder of human dignity. Snow has orchestrated the Games to portray the tributes as brutal and emotionless, but the tenderness between Katniss and Peeta disrupts this narrative. For the districts, this display of affection might be affirming, but for the Capitol elites—who are indoctrinated to view the districts as barbaric—it’s a moment that forces them to confront the humanity of those they’ve been taught to despise.

The kiss also represents a profound act of love and sacrifice. Katniss and Peeta are willing to embrace death for each other’s sake, a selflessness that is especially striking for Katniss, who has a family depending on her. Katniss’s choice to prioritize Peeta over her sister Prim—who has been her driving motivation—reveals the depth of her love for Peeta. Despite Prim being being 'the only person she's certain to have ever loved' she still chooses Peeta. Despite Prim being the very reason for her entry in the games, she now chooses to die for Peeta. This moment is astonishing to the audience, as Katniss dismisses Peeta’s plea with his locket, saying, “I need you.” Their decision to choose each other over the Capitol’s imposed narrative fundamentally undermines the premise of the Quarter Quell: that even the strongest cannot resist the Capitol’s power. Regardless of whether they survive, Katniss and Peeta have already won a moral victory by sparking rebellion and prioritizing love over fear. Their unity directly challenges the Capitol’s divide-and-conquer strategy, making them symbols of defiance and hope.

[whencyclopedia]

Roman Girls and Marriage in Ancient Rome

In ancient Rome, the legally acceptable age for marriage for girls was twelve. Although in middle-class Roman society, the most common age of first marriage for a girl was mid-to-late teens, evidence also shows that in a section of elite society, marrying off daughters at twelve or sometimes earlier was not uncommon. Traditionally, the father, the paterfamilias, and his family council arranged the marriage.

Artist's Impression of a Roman Wedding

Mohawk Games (Copyright)

Adolescence

Formal elementary education for girls in ancient Rome would have finished at the age of twelve, however, some upper-class families chose to give their daughters further literary education. At this pivotal period in a young girl's life, as she moved out of childhood, the attention focused on a differently styled life, one which fostered modesty, decorum, and chastity; preparing the ground for marriage and motherhood. Indeed, it appears that adolescence for a Roman girl was brief and, in some cases, it seems non-existent; the inscriptions found on Roman funerary stones highlight society's expectations that a young girl behave in a way that was more adult-like in nature, indicating a cultural tendency to view young girls with qualities far beyond their years. Pliny the Younger (61-112 CE) echoed such sentiments when he wrote of a 13-year-old girl, engaged to be married, who combined the wisdom of age and the dignity of womanhood (Ep. 5.16).

Statue of a Girl Playing Knucklebones

Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin (Copyright)

As love, sex, and marriage in ancient Rome were defined by the patriarchy, from this adolescent period, when a girl was developing physically and acquiring sexual attractiveness, her life was carefully regulated in order to protect and preserve her virginity for her future husband.

Continue reading...

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.5

Chapter Five: When They Erase Our Names, God Knows That One Thing Remains

Summary: You, a skilled healer, are brought to Rome by Senator Gracchus under the pretense of treating gladiators and Roman elites. You work with General Marcus Acacius to fight against the cruel reign of the twin emperors. Through danger and shared hope, your connection becomes a source of strength as you both dream of freeing Rome.

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, ANGST, Fluff, SMUT, Age-Gap(ish), Ancient Rome, Canon-Typical Violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Romance, Politics, Alternate Universe, Eventual SMUT, Slavery, Sexism, Misogyny, Guilt, PTSD, Rebellion, Empires, (Very Light) Strangers-to-Enemies-to-Friends-to-Lovers, Crowds, Shouting, Animals, Duels, Loose Historical Fiction, Kissing, Torture, Threats, Fighting, 

Word Count: 6.6k

A/N: I dreaded this chapter for various reasons lol T^T I hope you enjoy!

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The Rider by Paris Paloma

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IMPERIAL VILLA — NIGHT  

The grand hall of the Imperial Villa was dimly lit, the flicker of torches casting long shadows across the marble walls. The air reeked of incense and the sharp tang of blood, a bitter reminder of the night's brutal events. You stood off to the side, your wrists bound, a bruise blooming across your cheek and a shallow cut stinging on your temple. Beside you, Marcus Acacius knelt, beaten and bloodied but unbroken, his defiant gaze fixed ahead.  

Lucilla, regal even in captivity, was forced to her knees on his other side. Her disheveled hair did nothing to diminish her dignity. 

The Emperors swept into the room, their appearances as disheveled as their tempers. Geta, draped in an elaborate robe hastily thrown over his sleepwear, strode in with practiced authority. Behind him, Caracalla, his tunic barely covering his fury, paced like a caged beast. Macrinus and Thraex lingered in the shadows, smug satisfaction written across their faces.

Geta’s eyes locked onto Marcus with contempt, his voice ringing through the hall like a gavel. “The honor, the dignitas that Rome has bestowed upon you—all this you have forfeited by your treachery. Thanks to the civic virtue of men like Macrinus and Thraex, your insurrection has been revealed.”

Marcus lifted his chin, the blood on his face gleaming in the torchlight. Despite his injuries, his voice carried with unwavering strength. “Please, Emperor Geta, torture me if you want. But do not lecture me.”  

Geta’s lips curled in a sneer. “Your name and deeds will be forgotten, lost to history. You are damned to oblivion.”  

Marcus let out a low, defiant laugh, the sound echoing ominously through the chamber. Geta bristled. “You laugh?!”  

“You damn me?” Marcus growled. “I don’t care. Everything is forgotten in time. Empires fall. So do Emperors.”  

Caracalla, already simmering with rage, exploded. Grabbing a sword from a nearby Praetorian, he stormed forward, his voice a snarl of fury. “Why wait? I’ll gut him right now!”  

Geta rushed to restrain his brother, grabbing his arm as the blade swung wildly, narrowly missing Marcus’s head. “No! No! Calm! Calm! His death must be public.”  

“Public, yes,” Caracalla hissed, his eyes wild. “Hang his entrails from the city gates!” He spun toward you and Lucilla, his gaze venomous. “And them! Crucify them both. Crucify her!” His finger jabbed toward you, his voice breaking into a shriek. “Let them all suffer!”  

For the first time, Marcus’s composure cracked. “Leave her out of this!” he roared, his voice reverberating through the hall.  

Lucilla, too, stepped forward as far as her restraints allowed, her voice cold and commanding. “She is no threat to you. Punish me if you must, but she is innocent.”  

Caracalla’s lip curled. “Innocent? No one in your circle is innocent.”  

Geta held up a hand, signaling for silence. His gaze swept over you, considering, calculating. “No,” he finally said, his voice low but resolute. “Her skills as a healer are of use. She will not die.”  

Caracalla rounded on his brother, his outrage spilling over. “You would show her mercy?”  

Geta sneered, his tone dismissive. “Not mercy. A healer stripped of her riches and status is no better than a servant. She will remain—serving the Empire, tending to our men. Let her be a reminder of what happens to those who think they can defy us.”  

The decision was made. The Praetorians moved to haul you away, their grip bruising. Marcus struggled against them, his voice a thunderous plea. “No! Let her go!”  

You glanced back at him, your heart aching at the anguish in his eyes. “Marcus,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady. “Live. For Rome. For us.”  

His struggles stilled, though the fury in his gaze remained unquenched. “I will come for you,” he vowed, the weight of his words promising blood and fire.  

Lucilla caught your gaze as you were pulled away, her expression unyielding. “Stay alive,” she commanded in a soft whisper. “That is how you win.”  

You didn’t speak again as the guards dragged you out, but the quiet determination burning in your chest was louder than any words you could muster. The fight wasn’t over—not yet.  

UNDERCROFT, COLOSSEUM — MORNING  

The undercroft was cloaked in a heavy stillness, the faint roar of the distant crowd above serving as the only reminder of the chaos awaiting outside. The dim torchlight flickered against the cold stone walls, casting wavering shadows that seemed alive. You worked with quiet determination, dabbing ointment on Lucius’s wounds, though your hands trembled slightly from exhaustion. Sleep had eluded you since the altercation. If Ravi or Lucius noticed the change in your demeanor, they chose to remain silent.  

Ravi was seated nearby, carefully wrapping Lucius’s wrists with the precision of someone accustomed to mending what others sought to break. Lucius, his youthful face etched with weariness, broke the silence first.  

“Today, I woke up dreaming of a dark river,” he murmured, his voice low but steady. “A river I have dreamt of before, but this time, for the first time... I was crossing it.”  

Ravi paused, his hands stilling briefly as he considered Lucius’s words. “Where I come from, crossing a river represents forgiveness and salvation,” he replied softly.  

Lucius let out a faint, humorless chuckle. “Where I come from, it means you’re dead.” His gaze shifted to the middle distance, as if seeing something far beyond the confines of the undercroft. “I believe it means I will die today in the Arena. But—as I saw it, I was not afraid. For there were people on the other side. I was not alone. And my heart felt... open.”  

The weight of his words lingered in the air, but you said nothing, focusing instead on your work. You felt the knot tighten in your chest, the reality of his belief pressing down like a physical force.  

Lucius turned away, his eyes catching on the shrine of gladiators carved into the wall. He moved closer, stopping before a blank spot where a name had been crudely chiseled away. “Who was this man?”  

“Maximus,” Ravi answered, rising to stand beside him. You hesitated before stepping forward, your curiosity drawn toward the name as well.  

“I saw him fight once,” Lucius said, his voice carrying a rare sense of reverence. “It was magnificent.”  

Ravi nodded in agreement. “My time in the Arena was after his, but in whispers, many still spoke of him and what he did.”  

Lucius tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a memory. “I met him once. He was kind,” he added, his voice softening. “Bowed to no one.”  

Your eyes met Ravi’s, a silent understanding passing between you. You swallowed hard before speaking. “Come with us,” you urged, your voice low but insistent.  

---

UNDERCROFT, CATACOMBS — DAY 

The air grew colder as you descended the narrow staircase, the light of your torch flickering against the damp stone walls. The tunnel was lined with catacombs, their alcoves filled with the remains of fallen gladiators. Most were marked with nothing more than a name etched into the stone—Iduma of Mykonos, Cimon.  

“When a rebel gladiator dies, we are supposed to cremate him and scatter the ashes,” you explained, your voice barely above a whisper. “But we bury them here instead.”  

The crypt opened into a small chamber, dominated by a single phrase chiseled roughly into the stone: What we do in life echoes in eternity.  

Lucius approached the words, his fingers brushing lightly over the inscription as he read aloud, “What we do in life... echoes in eternity.” Beneath the phrase, the name Maximus was etched into the stone.  

Above the crypt, Maximus’s breastplate and sword hung from the wall, the metal dulled by time but no less imposing. Lucius reached up and took the breastplate down, his expression thoughtful. “Scatto,” he whispered. “Argento.”  

You watched him for a moment, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. Finally, you turned to Ravi, passing him the torch. “I must go before the games begin,” you said, your voice faltering slightly. “I...”  

Ravi gave a solemn nod, his expression steady. “The people will be ready when you call upon them,” he assured you.  

Lucius’s brows knit in confusion, but before he could ask for clarification, you turned and fled, your footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor.  

THE COLOSSEUM — DAY  

You sprinted through the labyrinthine corridors of the Colosseum, your breath ragged, the cold stone walls blurring past you. The distant roar of the crowd reverberated through the halls, each cheer a hammer against your chest.  

At last, your eyes found him—Marcus, striding toward the Arena gates. His armor gleamed faintly under the dim torchlight, but it did little to hide the stiffness in his movements, the weight of his untreated wounds dragging against his formidable will. His commanding presence, though battered, remained intact, his head held high as if he bore the weight of Rome itself.  

“Marcus!” you cried out, your voice slicing through the din, raw with desperation.  

A Praetorian stepped forward, intercepting you with a vice-like grip on your arm. “Stand back!” he barked, his tone as sharp as the gladius at his side.  

“Let me go!” you screamed, thrashing against him. Your gaze locked on Marcus, pleading. “His wounds—they haven’t been treated! You’re sending him to die!”  

Marcus turned sharply at the sound of your voice, his piercing gaze cutting through the distance. The hardness in his expression wavered for a fleeting moment, giving way to something tender. “Release her,” he growled, his tone low but unyielding.  

The Praetorian hesitated, glancing between you and Marcus as if weighing the consequences. When he didn’t relent, you tore your arm free, ignoring the sting of his grip. “If you send him into that Arena like this,” you said, your voice rising with fury, “it will not be a fight—it will be an execution!”  

Marcus took a step closer, his battered frame radiating defiance. His eyes, however, softened as they met yours, and for a moment, the clamor of the world seemed to fade. “You shouldn’t have come,” he murmured, his voice rough, but threaded with something intimate.  

“I couldn’t stay away,” you replied, your voice trembling. “Not when I know what they’re doing to you. Not when I—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat.  

The Arena gates groaned open, and the roar of the crowd surged, deafening. Time seemed to slow as Marcus reached for your hand, his touch brief but searing, grounding you in the moment. “No matter what happens, know this,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around you. “You are the light I carry into the darkness. My carissima—my heart has been yours long before this day.”  

Your breath hitched, your vision blurring with unshed tears. “Then fight for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Fight for us.”  

A faint, bittersweet smile ghosted his lips as he released your hand and turned toward the gates. “For you, I will endure anything,” he said, his voice resolute.  

As he stepped forward, the sunlight streaming into the Arena catching on his armor, you stood rooted to the spot, your heart splintering with every step he took. “Marcus!” you called out one last time, the weight of unspoken words heavy on your tongue.  

He paused, glancing back with a look that spoke of endless promises. “Whatever happens, my love will echo into eternity.”  

You watched him disappear into the blinding light of the Arena, the roar of the crowd swallowing him whole. The Master of Ceremonies reads off the official denunciation of the man you love, “For his treason against the lives of the Emperors and the Roman state... an Enemy of the People.”

And in that moment, all you could do was hope—that the fire in his spirit would be enough to carry him back to you.

The clash of swords echoed in your ears, but your focus was entirely on him—on Marcus. The sight of him in the Arena, a whirlwind of strength and precision, sent your heart into a spiral of anguish and awe. He dispatched the four soldiers with ruthless efficiency, sustaining only a superficial scratch. His breath came heavy as he stood amidst the carnage, blood staining the sand beneath his feet.  

You tore your gaze away to look above, where Lucilla sat in the royal box, her wrists bound in chains. Her face, streaked with tears, mirrored the grief clawing at your own chest.  

When Marcus’ eyes found yours, the rest of the Colosseum seemed to vanish. Though his body bore the scars of countless battles, it was his gaze that struck you deepest. His eyes burned with a fire that had kept him alive through horrors unimaginable, yet they softened when they landed on you.  

Your heart twisted painfully. Yes, he wore the scent of blood and death like a warrior’s perfume, his every move a testament to his survival. But you loved him regardless, perhaps even because of it. He was a star burning with the light of a thousand suns, and your world was an endless abyss without him.  

The Master of Ceremonies stepped forward, his voice booming over the crowd. “From the vanquished city of Numidia, the victor of two contests in the Colosseum—the barbarian Hanno!”  

The south gate creaked open, and from the shadows stepped Lucius. Your breath caught in your throat. Fear consumed you, gnawing at your resolve. This was no ordinary opponent; this was Lucilla’s son. Lucius, whom you had come to know, to care for as a friend. And now, fate had pitted him against the man you loved.  

Marcus straightened, his sword glinting in the harsh sunlight. Lucius raised his weapon, his youthful face a mask of determination, and charged.  

The clash of their swords reverberated through the Arena, each strike heavier than the last. Marcus splintered Lucius’ wooden shield with a single swing, sending fragments scattering. Without hesitation, Lucius threw himself back into the fray, weapon raised high. The flat of his blade caught Marcus broadside, forcing him to stagger.  

Your nails dug into your palms as you watched the brutal dance unfold. Marcus managed to disarm Lucius, knocking him to the ground. But when the final blow could have come, Marcus hesitated. He stepped back, raising his hand to the crowd, then dropped to his knees in the sand.  

“Acacius has raised his hand!” the Master of Ceremonies declared. “He has surrendered!”  

A stunned silence fell over the crowd. Tears streamed down your face, unchecked, as you whispered, “No…”  

The silence broke with a roar. “Let the gods decide!” the Master of Ceremonies proclaimed.  

Your stomach churned as Geta stood in the royal box, his hand lifted to the sky. Time slowed as he brought it down—thumb turned irrevocably down.  

“No!” you screamed, though your voice was drowned by the crowd’s cheers.  

Lucius rose, sword in hand, and approached Marcus. The words exchanged between them were faint, but you strained to hear. Marcus spoke with quiet conviction, his voice steady even in the face of death. “Do what you must. On my death, you must know… I love her—the healer, my carissima. Your mother was my friend. Your father, my brother in arms. I would have died for him.”  

Something shifted in Lucius’ stance. He faltered, his sword lowering. And then, to the shock of all, he dropped it to the sand. Slowly, he knelt beside Marcus, defying the will of the Emperor.  

Rage flared in your chest, consuming the fear that had gripped you. It was raw and primal, burning away hesitation. You darted toward a weapons rack near the Arena’s edge, your fingers trembling as you grabbed an arrow. Wrapping its head in cloth soaked with pitch, you moved swiftly to the north gate.  

The guards were too distracted by the unfolding scene to stop you. Lighting the arrow on a nearby torch, you notched it and drew the bowstring back, your muscles taut with purpose. The flames licked at the arrow as you aimed high and let it fly.  

It struck true, igniting a banner in the royal box. Flames spread rapidly, drawing screams from the crowd. You let out a sharp whistle, piercing through the chaos—the signal.  

In an instant, chaos erupted. Some of the Praetorian archers turned on their comrades, loosing arrows in calculated rebellion. Screams and confusion engulfed the Colosseum as you sprinted toward the center of the Arena.  

“Marcus!” you shouted, dodging arrows as you reached him and Lucius.  

His head snapped toward you, his expression a mix of fury and desperation. “What are you doing? You’ll get yourself killed!”  

“I’m not leaving you!” you shouted back, grabbing his arm.  

The three of you ran for the undercroft, but not before an arrow struck Marcus in the arm. His cry of pain sent a fresh wave of terror through you, but you didn’t stop.  

Ravi appeared at the entrance to the undercroft, his face streaked with soot and pale with fear, but his resolve unwavering. “This way!” he called, rushing forward to take Marcus’ other arm and hoist it over his shoulder. Marcus groaned, his weight pressing heavily against both of you, though his eyes still burned with determination despite the pain.

“Keep moving,” Ravi urged, his voice tight with urgency.  

Lucius, breathing hard but steady, halted suddenly. “I will stay,” he said, his voice firm, though his expression betrayed the conflict within.  

“Lucius, no,” you protested, your voice catching as you turned to him.  

“I must,” he said, shaking his head. His eyes were filled with a mix of fear and fierce loyalty. “For my mother. For Lucilla. I can’t abandon her to them.”  

You hesitated, your chest tightening. “Lucius…”  

He stepped forward, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “You have a chance to make this right,” he said, his voice softer now, almost imploring. “Go. Protect him. Do what I cannot.”  

Marcus stirred at Lucius’ words, his head lifting weakly. “Lucius,” he rasped, his voice laden with respect and sorrow. “You’re braver than I could ever hope to be.”  

Lucius gave a small, sad smile. “No, General. I’ve only learned from the best.”  

Your throat tightened as you searched for words, but none came. Instead, you nodded, a silent promise passing between you.  

“Go,” Lucius said, his voice more urgent now as the distant sound of Praetorian guards grew closer. “I will buy us the time we need.”  

Your heart clenched as you watched him turn back toward the chaos above, his sword in hand, shoulders squared against the impossible odds.  

“I’ll see you again,” you called after him, your voice trembling.  

He didn’t look back, but his voice carried through the shadows. “I’ll hold you to that.”  

Ravi tugged on Marcus, breaking you from your frozen stance. “We have to move!”  

You spared one last glance at the chaos above—the flames licking at the banners, the rebellion erupting like a storm, the empire trembling on the brink of collapse. Lucius stood at the edge of it all, a lone figure against the inferno.  

Then you turned and disappeared into the shadows, Marcus’ weight heavy against your side but his presence anchoring you. Each step was a vow—to see this through, for Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, and for the fragile hope of a future you still dared to dream of.  

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — EVENING

The hidden cottage was small, nestled among the thick trees on the outskirts of Rome. Its weathered walls, cloaked in ivy, offered a fleeting sense of safety as you dismounted your horse, your legs trembling beneath you. Marcus slumped in the saddle, pale and shivering, his strength all but drained. Ravi rushed to help, catching him before he toppled to the ground.  

“Inside, quickly,” you urged, your voice shaking as you flung open the door. The cottage was sparsely furnished—a rough-hewn table, a single cot, and a fireplace where embers still smoldered from whoever had left it behind.  

Ravi and you eased Marcus onto the cot, his armor clinking as it hit the wood. He let out a low groan, his hand gripping yours tightly as his head lolled back.  

“Marcus,” you whispered, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.  

“I’m fine,” he rasped, though the deep crimson staining his tunic said otherwise.  

“No, you’re not,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the storm raging in your chest. “Ravi, get the water boiling. We need to clean these wounds.”  

Ravi nodded, already moving to the fireplace. You quickly removed his armor and tore at Marcus’s tunic, exposing the angry gash on his shoulder where the arrow had struck. Blood seeped sluggishly from the wound, a stark reminder of how close you’d come to losing him.  

“This will hurt,” you murmured, your fingers trembling as you pressed a cloth to the wound.  

“Hurts less,” Marcus said, his lips twitching in a faint smile, “when you’re the one tending to it.”  

“Save your charm for when you’re not bleeding to death,” you replied, though your voice softened, betraying your worry.  

As you worked, Marcus’s breathing grew shallower. His hand found yours again, squeezing weakly. “You’re trembling,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“So are you,” you shot back, though your resolve wavered as his thumb brushed over your knuckles.  

“Carissima,” he murmured, the term of endearment slipping from his lips like a prayer. “I need you to listen.”  

“Marcus, stop,” you said, blinking back tears. “Save your strength.”  

He shook his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours with startling clarity despite the fever setting in. “Listen to me. There’s something I need you to do.”  

Ravi returned with a steaming basin of water, and you began cleaning the wound with swift, efficient movements. Marcus flinched but didn’t pull away.  

“You’re going to ride to Ostia,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “You will find General Darius Sextus. Tell him to bring the army. It’s the only way we overthrow those bastards on the throne.”  

“I’m not leaving you,” you said, your tone sharp as you dabbed at the wound. “You’ll bleed out if I’m not here.”  

“You’ll come back,” he said, his lips curving into the faintest smile. “I know you will.”  

“Marcus, stop talking like this,” you snapped, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. “You’re not going to die.”  

He reached into the pouch at his belt, fumbling until his fingers closed around something. When he pulled it free, your breath caught. It was his simple signet ring, battered with age but unmistakably precious.  

He pressed it into your hand, his fingers curling over yours. “Take this,” he said, his voice trembling now. “When you return, I want to see it on your finger.”  

“Marcus…” Your voice broke, tears spilling down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back.  

“You’ll be my wife,” he continued, his delirium softening his usual commanding tone. “You already are in my heart. Always have been.”  

Your hands shook as you clutched the ring, the weight of his words pressing into your chest. “You’re feverish,” you said, trying to deflect the overwhelming wave of emotion. “You don��t know what you’re saying.”  

“I’ve never been more certain,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “You’re the reason I fight. The reason I live.”  

Ravi placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his voice quiet. “We need to cauterize the wound, or we’ll lose him.”  

You nodded, swallowing your tears as you set the ring aside, your fingers brushing Marcus’s cheek one last time. “Stay with me,” you whispered, your voice fierce despite the crack threatening to break it. “Stay, Marcus.”  

He gave a weak nod, his hand tightening briefly around yours. “For you, carissima, always.”  

The fire roared as Ravi prepared the blade. You took Marcus’s hand again, anchoring him as he drifted between consciousness and oblivion. The pain would be unbearable, but so was the thought of a world without him.  

As you pressed the heated metal to his wound, his scream tore through the room, and your heart shattered. But you didn’t let go. You never would.  

HIDDEN COTTAGE, OUTSKIRTS OF ROME — MIDNIGHT

The crackling of the fire filled the silence of the room as shadows danced across the walls. You sat on a worn wooden stool, staring into the flames while absentmindedly twirling Marcus’ signet ring on your finger. The weight of it felt both grounding and unbearable—a constant reminder of him, of the fragile hope that lingered between life and death.

The sound of the door creaking open startled you, and you rose quickly, your heart in your throat. Ravi stepped inside, his arms laden with bundles of potions, food, and water. His face was streaked with dirt and exhaustion, but his resolve remained unbroken.  

“I carried what I could,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.  

You gave him a small, grateful nod. “Thank you, Ravi.”  

Together, you began unpacking the supplies, arranging them on the shelves in hurried efficiency. The weight of the night pressed down on both of you, heavy and suffocating.  

As he placed a jar of salve on the counter, Ravi broke the silence. “The streets are in chaos. Masses of people rioting, chanting for the emperors’ heads. It’s madness out there.”  

You paused, the weight of his words sinking into your chest. “And Lucius? Lucilla?” you asked, though you feared the answer.  

Ravi hesitated, his face grim. “I’ve heard talk… They plan to execute her tomorrow, along with several senators, including Gracchus.”  

Your heart clenched, and tears slipped down your face before you could stop them. The thought of Lucilla—brave, steadfast Lucilla—facing such a fate made your chest ache with helplessness.  

Ravi turned to you, his voice gentler now. “I know the fear inside you,” he said, his eyes steady on yours. “But let hope live beneath the doubt. You must ride to Ostia. Gather the army. I’ll stay here and watch over Acacius.”  

Your hands trembled as you gripped the edge of the table. The coolness of the ring on your finger seemed to burn against your skin, its presence a bittersweet comfort. “You have to keep him alive,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I beg you, Ravi. Keep him alive.”  

Ravi placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his gaze resolute. “I will. I swear it.”  

You moved quietly into the small room where Marcus lay, his large frame stretched across the narrow cot. His brow was furrowed even in sleep, and the faintest groan escaped his lips as he shifted. You knelt beside him, your heart tightening at the sight of him so vulnerable, so worn.  

Carefully, you brushed a stray lock of his salt-and-pepper curls from his forehead, your fingers lingering against his warm skin. He leaned into your touch unconsciously, his expression softening, and the faintest flicker of peace graced his face.  

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. The words felt like a prayer, a promise, and a plea all at once.  

Tearing yourself away from him felt like ripping your heart from your chest. Your knees threatened to give out, but you steadied yourself, reminding yourself of the task ahead. For Marcus, for Lucius, for Lucilla, for Rome—you had to be strong.  

You stepped outside, the crisp night air biting against your skin. Pulling your hood over your head, you turned to Ravi, who stood waiting with your horse. He handed you the reins with a solemn nod.  

“Heo is se wind. You’re the wind,” Ravi said softly, almost as if speaking to himself. “The wind that will carry them home.”  

You met his gaze, your throat tight with unspoken gratitude, and mounted your horse. With a final nod to Ravi, you dug your heels into the stirrups and rode into the darkness.  

The cold air whipped against your face as the cottage disappeared behind you, the quiet night broken only by the sound of your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth. The road ahead was long and uncertain, but your heart burned with a single, unrelenting purpose: to save Marcus, to save Rome, and to see the light of hope once more.  

—--------------

OSTIA — DAWN  

The first light of dawn kissed the horizon, streaking the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The Roman camp at Ostia stirred with life as soldiers prepared for the day, their voices carrying through the crisp morning air. You rode into the camp at a gallop, your horse’s hooves pounding against the earth, kicking up dust in your wake.  

“Stop!” a centurion bellowed as you neared the heart of the camp. Others joined in, shouting commands to halt, but you paid them no mind. Your determination was unshakable.  

You dismounted swiftly, your legs unsteady after the relentless ride. The horse whinnied, tethered hastily to a nearby post. Two centurions moved to intercept you, their hands outstretched to block your path.  

“Out of the way!” you snapped, your voice sharp with urgency. When one of them grabbed your arm, you shoved him aside, yanking your hood back to reveal your face. They froze, their expressions flickering between surprise and confusion. A woman, unarmored, and yet, you carried yourself with a ferocity that made them hesitate.  

You stormed through the rows of tents, your breath coming in shallow gasps, until you reached the largest one—adorned with the banners of Darius Sextus, the legate commanding the army at Ostia. Two guards stationed outside moved to block your way.  

“Identify yourself!” one barked, his hand on the hilt of his gladius.  

Your eyes burned with the fire of purpose as you held up your hand, revealing the signet ring gleaming in the early light. “This is my identification,” you said fiercely, brushing past them before they could respond.  

Inside the tent, Darius Sextus sat at a makeshift table, a half-eaten loaf of bread in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other. He looked up at you with mild irritation, his brow furrowing at the sight of an unannounced visitor.  

Before he could demand an explanation, you strode forward, your breath still labored, and thrust the ring onto the table. The sound of metal striking wood reverberated through the space.  

His gaze dropped to the ring, and the moment recognition dawned in his eyes, he stiffened. “Who gave you this?” he demanded, rising to his feet.  

You straightened, despite the ache in your legs and the sweat dripping down your temples. “Marcus Justus Acacius,” you replied, your voice steady despite your exhaustion. “My husband.”  

Darius blinked, his surprise evident, but you pressed on before he could question further. “My friend Lucius Verus Aurelius Maximus, the prince of Rome, and his mother, Lucilla, are in grave danger. They need your help.”  

Darius stared at you, his expression unreadable. Finally, he gestured to the ring. “This is proof of Acacius’ command. And yet, you claim he sent you as his... wife?”  

Your jaw tightened, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “He entrusted this to me because he knows the danger we face. Rome is falling, and you, Legate, have the power to stop it. Marcus fights for a better Rome, not for glory or power, but for the people. If you care for your city, for your honor, you’ll listen.”  

For a moment, silence stretched between you. Then, Darius stepped closer, his voice quieter but no less firm. “If Acacius sent you, where is he now?”  

Your heart clenched at the memory of Marcus lying pale and wounded in the hidden cottage. “He is injured,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly. “But alive. And he fights still, in spirit, even as his body recovers. He would be here himself if he could.”  

Darius studied you for a long moment, his sharp eyes assessing. Finally, he nodded. “You have his courage,” he said, a flicker of respect softening his tone. “I will call the banners and ride for Rome. But understand this, woman—if you are lying, it will cost you your life.”  

You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your gaze. “I do not fear death. But you should fear the wrath of a man who loves Rome enough to sacrifice everything for her. Marcus Acacius does not choose his allies lightly.”  

Darius gave a curt nod, already turning to issue orders to his men. The tent erupted into activity as soldiers prepared to march. You stepped back into the dawn, your heart heavy with the weight of what lay ahead but emboldened by the hope flickering in the distance.  

You clutched the ring on your finger, its presence grounding you. "Wait for me, Marcus," you whispered under your breath as the camp burst into motion. "I will see this through."  

VIA SACRA, RIVERBANK — DAY  

The air was thick with tension, the distant outline of Rome rising like a specter against the horizon. The sound of hooves pounding the ground was relentless, a rhythm of war and desperation. You rode at the front of Acacius’s army, the wind whipping your cloak as your horse surged forward. Around you, the soldiers moved as one, their determination palpable.  

Beside you, General Darius Sextus rode with a stoic expression, his gaze fixed on the gates of Rome. Your own heart thundered in your chest, not from the exertion, but from the knowledge of what lay ahead. Somewhere beyond those gates was Marcus, his life tied to the fate of this city, and you would see it through—if only for him.  

As you neared the gates, movement drew your attention. Macrinus, a dark figure astride his horse, galloped toward the advancing army. His presence was a challenge, a taunt, his defiance cutting through the rising tension.  

You reined in your horse, watching as Macrinus paused, his sharp gaze darting between the approaching forces. General Tegula, standing at the head of the praetorian line, gestured for Macrinus to act. But before he could, another rider tore across the field—a blur of motion and purpose.  

Lucius Verus Aurelius.  

You drew in a sharp breath, your hands tightening on the reins as Macrinus's voice rang out.  

“Will nothing kill this barbarian?” he shouted, his tone biting, his words aimed at Lucius.  

The two men faced each other, their animosity tangible even from a distance.  

“My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius,” Lucius declared, his voice steady and commanding. His words carried to the men at the front of the praetorian army, the hint of intrigue flickering in General Tegula’s expression. The soldiers began to falter, their loyalty visibly wavering.  

Macrinus sneered, his voice laced with contempt. “A man does not become Emperor by bloodline alone. It must be taken by force and kept by force. Are you such a man as this?”  

Lucius sat tall on his horse, the morning sun catching the golden trim of his armor. “I don’t fight for power,” he said, his voice resolute. “I fight to free Rome from men like you and return it to them.” He gestured to the soldiers and people around him, his meaning clear.  

Your chest swelled with a mix of hope and trepidation as you glanced at Darius, whose expression remained unreadable.  

For the first time, doubt flickered in Macrinus’s eyes, his bravado cracking. “The gods themselves want Rome reborn. They sent me to fulfill that task,” he declared, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction.  

“And what if your gods sent me here to kill you?” Lucius countered, his voice deep and unyielding. “It’s time to end this, Macrinus.”  

Without another word, Lucius drew his sword, spurring his horse into a charge. You barely had time to catch your breath as the two men clashed, the force of their collision sending Macrinus and his horse tumbling.  

Your gaze followed the battle, each strike and parry a brutal testament to their will. The armies on either side stood silent, watching as Lucius and Macrinus fought beneath the Arch. Darius’s men halted, their discipline holding firm, while the praetorians hesitated, their loyalty unraveling.  

Lucius’s movements were fierce and unrelenting, but Macrinus fought like a cornered beast. The clash carried them off the road and toward the riverbank, the muddy slope making each step precarious.  

You leaned forward in your saddle, your breath caught as Lucius slipped, his body vanishing beneath the filthy water. Macrinus pounced, his blade flashing as he drove it downward, but Lucius erupted from the river with a rock in hand, smashing it against Macrinus’s head.  

The fight turned savage. Each strike from Lucius was fueled by purpose, his blows braining Macrinus until the man reeled, blinded by blood. You winced as Lucius swung his sword with surgical precision, severing Macrinus’s arm and then cutting deep into his abdomen.  

Macrinus crumpled, his remaining strength spent as he slumped into the river, his body drifting away in the current. Lucius stood motionless for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared after his fallen enemy.  

When he turned back, his bloodied form ascended the muddy slope, stepping into the silence that had overtaken the battlefield. Under the Arch, between two armies, Lucius paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the men and women who watched him.  

He threw down his sword, the sound of it hitting the ground a final punctuation to the violence. His voice, ragged but clear, carried across the field.  

“You look to me to speak,” he began, his tone solemn. “I know not what to say other than we have all known too much death. Let no more blood be spilt in the name of tyranny.”  

You swallowed hard, your chest tight as his words struck a chord.  

“My grandfather, Marcus Aurelius, dreamed of a Rome that would be a city for the many, a home for those in need—a republic. That dream has been lost.” He looked at the soldiers on either side of him, his expression weary yet determined. “But dare we rebuild that dream together. What say you?”  

For a long moment, the battlefield held its breath, a fragile stillness settling over the chaos. Lucius stood at its heart, bloodied yet unyielding, like a lone pillar in a storm-ravaged temple. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his words, his armor bearing the scars of battle, but his gaze remained steady, unbroken—a light that refused to be extinguished.  

Your eyes met his, just for a fleeting second, and in that shared glance was an unspoken vow, a thread of hope tethered to the impossible. As you turned your gaze back to Lucius, he stood as a reflection of what Rome could become: bruised but not beyond redemption.  

In that moment, a fragile ember of belief sparked within you. Hope, tenuous and flickering, wove itself into your thoughts. You closed your eyes briefly, your heart murmuring a silent prayer—for Marcus, for his dream of a better Rome, and for the chance to stand beside him when it was finally brought to life.

[blackstarlineage]

Thomas Sankara (1949–1987) was a revolutionary leader, military officer, and president of Burkina Faso who became an iconic figure in African politics for his commitment to self-reliance, social justice, and anti-imperialism. Born on December 21, 1949, in the then French colony of Upper Volta (now Burkina Faso), Sankara joined the military in his youth, where he rose quickly through the ranks. He was influenced by progressive and revolutionary ideas, particularly those of Pan-Africanism and socialism, and sought to transform his country into a model of independence and development.

Sankara came to power in a 1983 coup d'état, overthrowing the government of Jean-Baptiste Ouédraogo. At the age of 33, he became president of Burkina Faso, and immediately set about implementing radical reforms aimed at eradicating poverty, corruption, and dependence on foreign aid. He changed the country's name from Upper Volta to Burkina Faso, meaning "Land of Upright People," to reflect a new national identity based on dignity and self-determination.

Sankara’s leadership was characterized by bold, progressive policies. He launched large-scale public health and education campaigns, promoted gender equality (appointing women to key positions in government and supporting women's rights), and emphasized environmental sustainability through reforestation projects. He also spearheaded the construction of infrastructure and took a strong stance against foreign influence, particularly the exploitation of African resources by Western countries. Sankara's government was anti-imperialist, and he worked to reduce Burkina Faso's dependence on foreign aid, promoting self-sufficiency through initiatives like domestic agriculture and local production.

Despite his popularity among many Burkinabé people and in Africa as a whole, Sankara’s policies and bold reforms created enemies, both domestically and internationally. His strong stance against corruption and the privileges of the elite alienated many, and his efforts to challenge the influence of the West led to tensions with France and other former colonial powers.

On October 15, 1987, Sankara was assassinated in a coup orchestrated by his former ally, Blaise Compaoré, who had served as his close confidant and vice president. The circumstances surrounding Sankara's death have remained controversial, with some believing that it was a conspiracy involving both internal and external forces. Following his assassination, Compaoré took power and reversed many of Sankara’s policies, leading to a period of greater reliance on foreign aid and the return of more traditional political structures.

Thomas Sankara's death was a tragic turning point in Burkina Faso’s history, but his legacy endures. He remains an enduring symbol of revolutionary change, self-determination, and the fight against imperialism. His vision of a united, self-sufficient Africa continues to inspire activists and leaders around the world. While his life was short, his ideals and his commitment to justice have cemented him as one of Africa's most influential and admired leaders. 🇧🇫