#issue 1 of empire of stone

[whatwooshkai]

just finished the first issue of micromasters. going insane in general but seriously. was anyone going to tell me there's a canon transformer named BIG DADDY because WHY DID I HAVE TO FIGURE THAT OUT MYSELF BY TRACKING DOWN PHYSICAL COPIES OF AN OUT OF PRINT COMIC

[zorostitties]

Aurora; 8 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 9k

A/N: HAPPY ONE MONTH ANNIVERSARY TO AURORA!!! I can't even believe I got this far with this fic. Fucking 50k+ words in a month??? Hyperfixation REALLY go boom! It also happens to be my birthday today 🫠 my age is definitely starting to sound WAY TOO SERIOUS now. welp. ANYWAYS - an anon motivated me to create a playlist for aurora, so here it is!!! These are some of the songs that I listen on repeat when I'm writing. Not all of the lyrics have anything to do with the story tho, some just match the vibe of the fic. Though, if I had to choose a "theme song" for Aurora, it'd definitely be Darkness At The Heart of My Love - Ghost. I know metal isn't everybody's cup of tea but in my brain, vampires = metal. And specifically Castlevania = Rammstein for some reason lmao. Anyway!! I hope you guys give it at least (1) listen, as I really think the playlist encapsules the vibes I'm trying to portray in my writing very well. ANYWAYS!!! LET ME SHUT UP!! ENJOY THIS BEAST OF A CHAPTER <3

⤕  Masterlist  ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Playlist

? Years Ago

Jerash, Ottoman Empire

The moon was hidden behind heavy storm clouds that night.

The rain whipped against the walls and ceiling of the humble house. It consisted of only two rooms – the kitchen and a tiny bedroom with simple wooden furniture. One would consider it the house of a common peasant, but the hundreds of books piled over one another indicated otherwise. They were everywhere: over the table, stored on shelves, precarious bookcases and boxes… some looked ancient, some looked new. Some had intricate leather covers, beautiful handwriting and illustrations, while others were nothing but a bunch of pages with incomprehensible scribbles. It was even difficult to walk into the house without stepping over one.

The place smelled of spices. Many types of dried herbs were hanging around the kitchen. Different types of stones of all colors and sizes rested over the closed windowsill: quartz, crystals, amethysts, obsidian, malachites… colorful bird feathers were tied by threads in intricate designs, also hanging from the ceiling. All of that was supposed to provide “protection” against the “evil”, apparently.

Drolta hated that place.

No… hate was too strong of a word. To hate someone or something, you must care about it enough, and Drolta didn’t. She was… disgusted. All the dirt, the simplicity, the cheap magic that wouldn’t even hurt a fly… it was boring.

And the owner of that house was especially disgusting.

That short, bald creature finally appeared from inside the bedroom, carrying a heavy book in hands and an annoying large smile. When all this ended – and hopefully it would end very soon –, Drolta would make sure to kill this little man and take a long, really long bath to take his smell off her skin. She didn’t even plan on feeding off him. He didn’t deserve it. Drolta refused to drink from a neck that wasn’t soft, young and feminine.

“Here it is. The product of all of my researches over the years,” he claimed proudly. What was even his name? Was it Khalil? She didn’t remember. Before looking at her face, his eyes stopped for two seconds on her cleavage. He did it every time and hadn’t been trying to hide it ever since Drolta stepped foot into this thing he called home.

Men… oh, how easy men are. Drolta witnessed multiple changes in the world during her long lifetime. She saw empires rise and fall, cultures cease to exist, philosophies and religions sweep the Earth. But one thing that had never changed over all this time was the simplicity of men. All she needed to do was put on a tighter corset, a deeper cleavage… and she had him on the palm of her hand. Drolta didn’t even need to try much much harder. This little Khalil man was the type she despised the most: the needy type. Never got married. Judged too strange by his fellow villagers. Probably never felt the touch of a woman. He was desperate.

But he had something that Drolta valued after all: knowledge. There was a time when the world was full of magicians. Speakers, priestesses, witches, oracles, shamans, alchemists… actual scholars of the ways of magic. But that was before the fucking Church. Now, apparently, all humans knew how to do was kneel and pray for a God that could not grant them any power.

Drolta was aware that she was partially at fault in all this. However, she would redeem herself soon.

When she finally succeeded in bringing Sekhmet back to life, this Earth would know what a real Goddess is. A Goddess with real power, real impact, who could bring real fear and obedience and adoration.

Soon, she thought to herself. I can feel it. She will come back soon. I will bring her back soon.

So many centuries of preparation. So many sun cycles searching for the right candidate. She had finally, finally encountered someone whose body managed to withstand Sekhmet’s power. Erszebet Bathory grew more powerful every day; the holy blood she drank was slowly but surely changing her body, her soul, empowering her. Drolta could feel Sekhmet’s presence in this world getting stronger. She could feel her goddess through Erszebet, talking through her, striving to resurface through that vessel. Everything was going so well.

And yet – all of her effort was still not enough, because half of Sekhmet’s soul was still missing.

Aside from taking care of the vessel, Drolta and her sisters roamed Earth after the Ba – Sekhmet’s mummy. For some reason, it was always out of reach: stolen from someone, bought by someone, then stolen again, then auctioned… Drolta was always too late. She prayed, prayed, prayed ardently that her beloved Goddess would help her from the other side, give her a sign, maybe twist things a bit so she could have a chance… but oh, she knew her Goddess was too weak to help. Drolta knew she would have to find a way.

And although all odds seemed to be working against her, Drolta found another way. Drolta thought of another chance.

As far as her associates scattered around the world knew, the mummy was lost forever. She completely lost track of it somewhere in the Horn of Africa; the last news she heard about it was years ago. As much as Drolta despised the idea – as much as she’d like to personally torture whoever committed such blasphemy towards the body of Sekhmet –, she had to be realistic and assume that the mummy was, perhaps, definitely gone.

But Drolta wouldn’t let herself be drowned by despair. No. Despair was the enemy of reason. She had to be strong – for Sekhmet, for her sisters, for her goal.

So another idea grew into her mind.

Drolta was under possession of Sekhmet’s blood, the Ka; the Goddess’ Ba, the mummy, was out of reach.

And then there was the third piece of her soul which was also out of reach.

Except… maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe there was a way to reach into it.

Yes, she knew no one had ever managed to do it. Yes, she knew the possibility of failure was high. Yes, she knew that, perhaps, it was all but a delusion. However, Drolta couldn’t be sure without trying first. If there was even the smallest possibility of it working, she would go on with it.

She had to do it – and do it fast. Drolta had never met anyone that could take so much of Sekhmet’s blood, but even her couldn’t take much more; the Goddess needed her other half.She could not lose Erszebet; she would do anything in her power to keep that woman safe.

Which led Drolta to this annoying mortal man.

He was disgusting. He smelled bad. He had the audacity of assuming he was going to fuck her. And still, he was an alchemist – and there weren’t many alchemists in the world anymore. Not good ones, at least. Drolta wasted her time going after a famous alchemist in China months ago, but she turned out to be a charlatan. As far as Drolta knew, this one was real. Maybe not powerful like mortal alchemists used to be, but he could do the job.

“From the information I have gathered, it hasn’t been tried in centuries,” Khalil spoke with amazement and reverence. It truly was the work of his life, apparently. “Not many scholars even believe it happened, in fact… it is under deep discussion. However, the ones that believe it, report that the occurrence happened in Wallachia, when a certain alchemist tried to… well…”

Khalil averted his eyes, seeming embarrassed and hesitant. Oh, the traits of a man that has been laughed at and ridiculed his entire life. Drolta felt grateful that he was this way. Much easier to deal with.

She rested her hand on his forearm and looked at him with round, curious eyes – even though she already knew what he was trying to say.

“Tried to what? Please, tell me,” she asked in a honeyed voice.

Khalil probably had an erection at that moment. His face flushed and he smiled.

“Tried to bring D-Dracula back to life,” he finally let out. “Yeah, I know it sounds absurd. I-I mean, Dracula? The folk tale to scare kids? How is that even possible?”

“I don’t find it absurd at all,” Drolta said, shaking her head softly. “Please, continue.”

The man averted his gaze from hers sheepishly, holding the book just a tiny bit stronger.

“Y-You are the first person to ever take me seriously, Miss Danubia,” Danubia? Oh… it’s the name she made up for herself. She had almost forgotten. “I… I really appreciate it.”

What, are you going to cry? Spare me.

Drolta caressed his arm softly.

“I admire your intelligence. I’d sit with you and talk for hours about all of your discoveries,” the idea sickened her, in fact. But Drolta couldn’t just force him to do anything. As far as she knew, the entire process had to be done willingly, otherwise it wouldn’t work.

For fuck’s sake, it really looked like he wanted to cry. Khalil blinked rapidly and looked down at the book again.

“Apparently, the portal was opened directly into Hell in order to retrieve Dracula’s soul. But it’s entirely possible that, through this same ritual, I could try to reach into other realms, too…” For the first time, Khalil looked hesitant. He gulped. “Though, if I’m to be completely honest, Miss Danubia, I do not believe I have the expertise needed to lead such a powerful ritual.”

Drolta stepped back, letting go of his forearm.

Khalil looked up at her, slightly startled at her sudden lack of touch.

But then, Drolta looked down, putting her hands over her chest and…

Tears welled up her eyes.

“I-I wish you could understand my pain and my despair, Khalil,” she started, voice trembling. “My mother… my dear mother. I could never tell her goodbye before her death. She had such a painful, slow death…” Drolta looked at him again, a single tear streaming down her cheek. “I do not wish to retrieve her soul, Khalil; I understand this goes against the laws of nature. I just want to… talk to her. In my culture, we believe that the souls of our deceased goes to the duat. If I can just get a peek of it… just look at her face once more… you will have my eternal gratitude. I-I can’t let this chance go by…”

Drolta covered her mouth and sobbed. With the corner of her eyes, she saw Khalil rush to put the heavy book over the table and bring her a handkerchief. She didn’t want to put that stinky thing near her face, but took it anyway and wiped her tears delicately.

Khalil pressed his lips together. All the hesitance was gone, being replaced by determination.

“I believe I can do it, Miss Danubia.” He inhaled before speaking. “The g-good feelings I have for you will be my guide and shield.”

Drolta offered him a sweet smile and a fragile thank you.

Khalil took off his coat and pushed the small table to the farthest corner of the room. He then took a piece of white chalk and started to draw something on the floor.

“This is the symbol of Osiris, Egyptian god of the Underworld… or the duat,” he explained while he drew. As if Drolta didn’t already know it. Yet, she acted shocked, trying to engage him in conversation as he lit a circle of candles around the hieroglyph. She needed him content and willing. Mortals work better when they are in their best feelings; they tend to put much more of their force into what they are doing, and this, in magic terms, was extremely meaningful.

Drolta loathed the fact that she needed this man happy to achieve her goal, but it was necessary. Well, if not happy, then hard. Sexual energy can also be extremely powerful.

After Khalil finished his preparations for the ritual, Drolta approached him and held his hand.

The man visibly held his breath.

It was so easy for her to send him that sweet gaze. So easy to trap his entire attention on her, as if Drolta became the very air in his lungs. She leaned down slightly and pressed her soft lips on his cheek, making sure to stay there a second longer than necessary, before leaning away a delivering a smile that showed quiet sadness and care.

“If you succeed, Khalil, you will have my heart eternally,” she purred in an almost whisper.

He was shocked.

It really looked like he couldn’t breathe.

Finally, he managed to crack a smile. He puffed his chest like a pathetic male bird and nodded as Drolta stepped away.

“I will, my lady. For you.”

She held back laughter.

Finally, Khalil took his heavy book again and stood near the candle ring. The flames projected eerie shadows around the walls; the outside storm was everything they could hear. He placed the book in front of his feet and took a small knife from his pocket.

“Blood is required to initiate the ritual,” he explained. “You can look away if it makes you uncomfortable, my lady.”

Khalil didn’t see when she rolled her eyes this time.

He swiped the knife on his palm, wincing in pain as he did. Weak little human, can’t even stand a cut without crying. He let blood drip over the symbol on the floor before walking back to the candle ring and taking the book in his hands once more.

He took a deep breath before finally initiating the spell.

His pronunciation of Akkadian was bad. Laughable, even. Drolta could barely understand half of the words. And yet, it was enough.

The candles trembled. The air within the house got colder. Drolta felt the floor beneath her feet shake slightly, the air vibrate in a high frequency – the frequency of high magic.

It was working.

A grin slowly grew on her lips. She… underestimated this little man after all. He was an actual alchemist – but the ritual was only working because of her efforts, she realized. Khalil was putting all of his love into the spell. Yes, actual love. How such a naive creature fell in love with her so quickly after a few days of knowing each other was beyond her.

Love is also extremely powerful in magical terms.

The storm grew angrier out there. A thunder so loud and so close shook the entire house, made Khalil lost his focus for a second before continuing to read the spell.

Followed by another thunder – even closer this time.

And another thunder.

The ground shook. Some books fell from the shelves. Khalil lifted his head and looked towards the window.

There was another sound mixed within the cacophony of the heavy storm.

Screams.

What was that out there? Was the house of his neighbor burning?

“W-What is–?” Khalil stuttered.

He hadn’t noticed that Drolta was towering right behind him. How did she get so close so fast?

She held his head with both hands from behind, guiding it down towards the book again.

“Keep reading,” she instructed in a quiet whisper, her mouth close to his ear.

A violent shiver ran down Khalil’s spine.

For the first time, Drolta’s presence made him feel uneasy. Her voice changed drastically; it wasn’t welcoming anymore, or warm, or caring. It was just freezing cold. It… it didn’t even sound much human.

All these talismans he hung around his house for protection – and yet the worst evil he could possibly imagine was standing right behind him, welcomed by him with open arms.

Another thunder. Another fire. Another house burning down. A few more souls to fuel the spell.

Khalil could be a real alchemist, but he was far from being a good one, Drolta remarked to herself. All of those books taught him nothing – again, she had to do most of the job. In the few days she worked on gaining his trust, she also made sure to mark every house in the village of Jerash with the symbol or Osiris. Marked it with virgin blood to make it even more effective.

Every respectable alchemist knew that in order to open a door into the Infinite Corridor, multiple mortal lives were required. That is why most alchemists weren’t brave enough to do it.

Khalil wouldn’t be brave enough to do it too if he knew what it’d cost. That is why Drolta lured him into it and made the preparations behind his back.

Drolta chuckled. How he must had been feeling at that moment, knowing he sacrificed hundreds of lives of his fellow villagers in the hopes of sticking his tiny penis inside of her?

“I told you to keep reading,” she repeated, and this time her voice sounded like a dangerous hiss.

Khalil’s hands trembled. He gulped. His voice wasn’t as confident anymore, but he had already initiated the ritual; there was no coming back from there.

The floor shook as more souls were reaped into the spell. Suddenly, the windows opened all at once; the ceiling cracked and was swiped away by a violent gush of wind. Drolta looked up in time to see a funnel of souls converging into a single streak of red light, being attracted by the symbol of Osiris on the floor; they made a twister within the circle of candles that were somehow still lit despite everything.

Wind and rain whipped Drolta and Khalil, made his books fly in all directions. None of that bothered Drolta. She had a maniacal grin on her lips, eyes locked in the chaos unveiling in front of her eyes.

Finally, finally, finally, a white crack slashed the air inside the candle ring. A crack in reality itself.

Freezing cold wind came out of it. The crack was slowly but surely getting wider. It made Drolta’s eyes widen, shivers run her body; few times in her life did she witness magic so powerful, so strong, so chilling.

It was working. It was finally working.

She stepped aside from a shell-shocked Khalil and extended her arms in a wide movement, the smile never vanishing from her lips.

A door to the Infinite Corridor, opened right in front of her eyes.

And yet – her work wasn’t done. This door needed to be redirected; it needed to be aimed at the right place.

“Oh Sekhmet, Eye or Ra, Lady of Terror, Mistress of Dread, She Who Mauls; hear mine calling, let thou be guided by the voice of thy loyal servant!” Drolta chanted with all her might, raising her voice as to be heard beyond the storm and the magic and the weeping souls.

The crack got a bit wider. Insurmountable amount of energy escaped from inside. Drolta didn’t even know if Khalil could stand in front of it much longer, given how weak he was, so she needed to rush.

“Hear mine call, Your Magnificence!” Drolta continued, gesticulating in wide movements. “Let mine voice guide thee through the waters of the primordial abyss; let thy Akh resurface in the land of the living. Oh Sekhmet, Lady of Slaughter, She of Ten Thousand Names; walk back into thy rightful realm, retake the throne unfairly taken from thee, wear thy rightful crown once more!”

The crack got wider, wider, wider. It was difficult to understand what could be seen inside of it; it looked like a confusing kaleidoscope. Different images jumped in the blink of an eye, landscapes not even Drolta could understand. And yet, she kept chanting, hoping her energy would be the necessary guide. The mark of Osiris burned in bright red.

Finally – the image within the crack seemed to stabilize itself.

Drolta’s eyes widened.

She saw a… calm river. A temple made of gold in the distance, sitting atop of an island. A pyramid. Purple trees adorned it; the tip of the pyramid shone with a blinding light. The most beautiful sky she had ever seen.

That was it. It was the duat.

Drolta got even more passionate in her speech; her throat ached from screaming.

“Hear mine voice, Lady Sekhmet! Hear mine voice! Come to me!” She begged. Finally, finally, finally, her goddess was right there; after years and years of searching and fighting for her and protecting her legacy and trying to find ways to revive her, after so many frustrated attempts of retrieving her mummy... Finally, Sekhmet’s Akh was right there in front of her eyes.

Finally, Drolta had succeeded.

All she needed to do was cross the door. Drolta couldn’t enter the duat, but Sekhmet could cross it towards the land of the living. Drolta held a small shabti made of pure gold in her hand, the holy object in which she could safely store the third part of Sekhmet’s soul. From there, Erzsebet would only need to incorporate it.

Come to me, Sekhmet; come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me–

Something happened.

The image twisted.

“What?” Drolta gasped.

The sight of the duat blurred.

Suddenly, the winds that whipped the house got stronger, more violent. The soul twister got more chaotic. Now, everything that could be seen within the door was the kaleidoscope of colors again, passing rapidly.

It… started to get black.

“No! No! What are you doing?!” Drolta turned to Khalil, her wrath so big that made him tremble. But the man was frozen in place, tears falling down his cheeks mixed with the rain.

“I-I-I’m not doing anything!” He stuttered. “It wasn’t me!”

Drolta turned to the door again.

The air was getting even colder. Colder, colder, colder… freezing. The Osiris symbol suddenly started to burn in black – and then everything else was black. The souls, the flames of the candles, the energy rays that poured from the door.

The air smelled of coal and sulfur.

“No! Stop! Stop!” Drolta yelled at whatever was interfering with the ritual. “I don’t want you here. I didn’t call you!”

But it was too late.

A second before the explosion, Drolta saw a dark figure walk out of the door.

She had time to protect her face with her arms. She did not care about Khalil.

Boom.

The shockwave destroyed what remained of Khalil’s house; he was sent back flying meters away. The reaped souls let their final, painful yell before dissipating in the air. The candles were extinguished in a gush of wind.

Drolta was the only thing to remain standing in place.

She lowered her arms slowly. It seemed that even the heavy storm got timid after such an unnatural occurrence. The neighbor houses still burned; the fires spread down the hill. As it wasn’t magical fire anymore, the rain started to quiet them down. No voices were heard. No more screams. No live witnesses anymore. The village of Jerash became nothing but a burning cemetery.

Drolta fell to her knees.

A shrilling scream of pure anger crossed the air.

She had failed. She got so fucking close and failed yet again. The duat was right there in front of her and she failed.

She turned around to see Khalil’s body on the floor.

Drolta got up, red anger clouding her gaze. He was still alive – hurt, bleeding and crying, but still alive.

“You stupid piece of shit!” She kicked his stomach so hard that the men rolled a few more meters away. “Useless little man. I submitted myself to your disgusting presence for days and you still didn’t serve me anything!”

Khalil coughed blood. He refused to look at her, shrinking into his own body, crying like a child.

She should skin him alive. This, at least, would serve as a way to calm down.

And yet – she stopped in her tracks.

Rain still fell over her head. She was entirely drenched. Drolta stopped and inhaled, letting her anger quiet down.

There was someone talking to her.

Something.

The air still smelled of coal and sulfur. It had nothing to do with the burning houses.

Slowly, she turned back to the circle of candles.

Her eyes widened.

There was someone laying on the floor inside the circle. She rushed towards it.

It was… it was a woman.

For a moment, overwhelming joy and excitement rushed through her veins. Could it be who she thought it was? What if she had actually succeeded, but in a different way than she first expected?

What if that was Sekhmet incarnate?!

Drolta knelt down beside the woman. She was unconscious, laid on her side, completely naked. With care – even hesitancy – Drolta turned her body around, making the woman lay on her back. She took some strands of drenched hair away from her face.

It was a young woman. Her chest moved slowly, as if she was simply asleep.

Drolta frowned.

She pressed two fingers over her neck. A regular pulse. The scent of… regular mortal blood.

Her frown deepened.

“This is no Sekhmet,” Drolta said through gritted teeth. “This is just human woman.”

Then, she lifted her gaze – and finally noticed what was talking to her.

It was nothing but a strange, tall shadow; Drolta could barely make sense of what she was looking at. But yet, that grin was very much recognizable. The entity seemed weak, vibrating in a low frequency, making the entire area around it even colder.

“Did you bring her with you?” She asked. The entity answered. It didn’t use… words. It spoke into her mind with intentions instead. Perhaps, it was way too weak to vocalize.

Drolta huffed with disdain. “And what use would this mortal have?”

The entity moved slowly, circling around them.

Drolta froze in place.

“How do you know this?” She asked in a cautious hiss.

The entity’s grin seemed to get even wider, now knowing that it had Drolta’s full attention.

It continued sliding around Drolta. The vampire lowered her head, looking at the human woman once again.

She looked and looked and looked and looked and…

She remembered.

Slowly, Drolta’s eyes widened as realization hit her.

This… wouldn’t solve all of her problems. She still needed to find the other half of Sekhmet’s soul. And yet… it could also serve her plans, in a way.

Drolta once again lifted her gaze towards the grinning shadow.

“I know you wouldn’t be offering me this out of the goodness of your heart,” she started with suspicion. “What do you want of me in return?”

The entity trembled. Drolta leaned her head slightly.

“An easy task. And if I fail?”

The entity grinned at her quietly. Drolta chuckled.

“You won’t have it, for I won’t fail.” She got up to her feet again. “But this sounds like a fair deal.”

A fair pact, in fact.

Drolta extended her arm towards the entity. It approached her; the shadow extended too in what resembled an arm. It revolved around her hand with a chilling touch.

When the shadow retreated, there was an icy object over Drolta’s palm.

A ruby necklace.

Drolta nodded at the entity; it sent her a last eerie grin before disappearing into the shadows of the night.

It was done.

Drolta looked down.

She took the cloak off her shoulders and covered the woman’s naked body with it. She leaned down, taking her into her arms, before straightening her posture again.

It… wasn’t a complete failure, after all.

Her Goddess never left her without a way out. She was always kind to send Drolta another option, another strategy, and that’s why Drolta managed to survive and move on after every problem.

“For every suffering, a wisdom is gained,” she said quietly. The mantra that had been keeping her sane for centuries.

Khalil was still weeping some meters away from her. Drolta paid him no mind. He wasn’t totally useless in the end, which meant he gained the right to keep living.

Drolta walked away from the burning cemetery of Jerash with the unconscious woman in her arms, the ruby necklace safely tangled around her palm.

The heavy storm clouds opened a small breach for the first time; the moon peeked through, being the only witness of the horrors that had unveiled that night.

Present time

Paris, France

The sun had hidden behind the horizon at least three hours ago.

You looked out the window at the full moon reigning sovereign in the sky from the tiny inn bedroom. There were barely any clouds to hinder its view. Stars adorned the space around her, creating a breathtaking view.

And yet, the air was… eerie.

Maybe because you knew what was about to come, and the fact that the rest of the city didn’t know yet made the situation horrifying. So many people were probably having dinner with their families, resting their heads over their pillows, having no idea of the hell that was about to burst upon them.

What made the situation even more difficult was that you were, well, useless in the middle of it all.

Richter and Annette were hunting nests of vampires. Alucard was about to leave to talk to the leaderships of Paris in order to organize the defensive lines. The three of them, much obviously, were ready to fight.

And you? All you had was a useless golden scepter.

Maybe you had your hopes way too high after what happened at the Louvre. You remembered what Annette told you when you first met – you might be a witch, Ruby; you just don’t remember it. You thought that, the moment you put your hands over the artifact again, you’d have some sort of epiphany. Your past would unveil itself in your head, you’d finally understand Erzsebet and Drolta’s interest in you, you’d know why you were needed to summon eclipses…

But nothing happened.

The scepter was just heavy and very impractical to carry around.

Alucard had no idea what language the inscriptions were. He advised you to not read them out loud, as it wasn’t clear the effect it could cause. You also didn’t magically understand what these words meant. So… just another frustration to add onto the pile.

“Ruby, I’m talking to you.”

You jumped and turned your head around. Alucard was standing in front of the door, searching for something in the inside pocket of his coat and eyeing you with curiosity. You adjusted your posture where you were sitting on the bed.

“I’m sorry. I… wasn’t paying attention.” You said sheepishly.

The white-haired vampire paused for a moment.

“Are you scared of being on your own?” He asked quietly.

You shook your head. “No! Not at all. I’ll be fine.” You reassured.

To be honest, being alone wasn’t exactly an idea you liked. The last three days were the safest you’d ever felt in your life, and that was because you were around them. You tried to avoid picturing the horrifying image of Drolta in her new night creature form breaking through that window and dragging you back to the chateau. There’s no way this is going to happen, not now that she retrieved Sekhmet’s mummy… I’m not needed anymore.

But the idea you liked even less was of being a burden, and you knew you’d be a burden if you kept hanging around uselessly while they fought. Annette almost died due to your mere presence. You were sure everyone would’ve handled the fight much better if you simply weren’t there. So… it’d be better if you just stayed hidden at the inn for the time being.

Alucard shrugged slightly and approached, finally revealing what he was searching for in his coat: a… red string?

He sat by your side on the bed, eyes glued on it. The only source of light came from the moon outside and a single candle holder over the desk. The light of the timid flame created a golden silhouette on his delicate features.

“The Revolutionary Commune is reunited some blocks away from here at this moment,” Alucard explained while his fingers worked on measuring the string. You watched him in silent confusion. His voice always dropped even quieter when he was close to you like that. It was… comforting. He was so close that his arm brushed on yours. “I must go warn them about the incoming fight. There will most definitely be vampires roaming the streets right now, hence why you must stay hidden for the time being.”

You nodded. “I understand.”

You watched as Alucard tied the red string around his own left wrist skillfully. How did he even manage to tie something with a single hand? That was quite impressive. “I won’t take more than two hours, however. After I assure your safety within the Revolutionary Commune, I will come to pick you up.”

Then, he brought his wrist close to his mouth; he put the remaining length of the string between his teeth and cut it using his sharp fangs.

Oh.

You couldn’t help but feel shivers run your spine whenever you remembered that Alucard had vampire fangs. He was half vampire, in fact. It was a bit strange how, as you grew comfortable around him, this “detail” became less and less relevant; you always associated vampires with the worst things possible, while Alucard was much the opposite. Perhaps that’s why it was a bit surprising to remember part of him was one.

You also had noticed that Alucard didn’t open much of his mouth when he talked… and it seemed to be a very conscious act when he was in public. You payed attention to how he talked to those boys earlier. Was it an attempt to make his fangs less obvious?

“Give me your left wrist.” He asked. You promptly obeyed. Alucard tied the remaining string around yours this time. “If anything happens, anything at all, untie this string. Mine will untie, too, and I will rush to you.”

You nodded, a bit surprised. “This is impressive.”

Alucard chuckled and tilted his head slightly. “You were effortlessly summoning eclipses and this is what surprises you about magic?”

The words got caught in your throat.

“Well– it is impressive.” He looked at you with a quirked eyebrow, which did not help you organize your thoughts better. “A-And I wasn’t summoning them, not exactly.”

“You’re not sure about that, are you?”

No, you weren’t.

Your shoulders dropped. Alucard chuckled again.

He finally let go of your wrist and a tiny part of you immediately missed his touch.

“Remember. Two hours. No more, no less.” He got up from the bed again and walked towards the door. “I might be asking too much from you, but I’d advise you against sleeping, too.”

“As if I’d be able to close my eyes at all,” you whined quietly to yourself.

Alucard opened the door and looked at you.

Once again, it seemed that he was about to say something. He looked… hesitant. His expression wasn’t as nonchalant as usual, but you couldn’t tell exactly why. You looked at him expectantly.

Then – this small glimpse dissolved in seconds.

“Lock the door,” he said, pointing at it with his head.

Oh.

You got up in a jump. At last, he left. You safely locked it and kept the key in the pocket of your vest.

Then, you were alone.

For the first time in your life, being alone didn’t bring you relief. You’d usually look forward to the moments you’d be locked inside your quarters again, recovering from your wounds; despite the pain, it were the only times when you had some peace. Now, however, you’d wish someone was here. You hoped Annette and Richter were safe, wherever they were…

You laid on the bed and faced the ceiling. The scepter was also over the bed, right beside you.

And you just… stayed there.

Your fingers fiddled with the red string on your left wrist mindlessly. Alucard didn’t make a complicated tie as to keep it easy to undo, so you took care to not untie it by accident. This little piece of braided wool had magic in it… but you didn’t feel anything strange while touching it.

You remembered how Alucard felt that the scepter was magic just by touching it, while for you it was just a normal object. You remembered how Richter could summon elements with his bare hands and Annette could see spirits as easily as people…. Perhaps you had no aptitude for magic at all. Perhaps they made you read that book because they needed a human to complete the summoning of an eclipse, not because you had some sort of hidden power.

You touched the scepter again without bothering to look at it. Cold and lifeless as usual.

Maybe it had that reaction – shining, the rust disappearing – because it needed someone to… awaken it. Anyone. Not you specifically.

But it must had been touched by someone before, isn’t it? Of course it was. It didn’t walk into that crate. Someone put it there.

You groaned and turned to your right side.

Minutes went by. Minutes, minutes, minutes. You were on high alert, so your eyelids didn’t feel heavy with sleep.

You laid on your stomach and brought the scepter close to your face.

These characters… you recognized them.

Alucard told you to not read them out loud, but he didn’t say anything about writing them.

You got up and rushed to the desk. There was a small drawer there with a piece of paper and some charcoal. You laid on your stomach again and started to translate the characters into the common Latin alphabet. Alucard might not recognize the characters, but what if he saw the syllables in a language he could read and the words made sense to him?

As the scepter had a lot of text and you didn’t have much paper, you tried to keep the letters as tiny as possible. You broke the charcoal a bit to make a sharper point. Your hands and the sheets got dirty with the black of the charcoal, but you couldn’t care less.

You didn’t pay attention to the time now that you had something to busy yourself with. Minutes went by. Minutes, minutes, minutes. An hour. Half an hour.

You had little free paper left and a lot to translate still when a sound out there immediately brought you back to your senses.

You froze and looked towards the window.

The street was very quiet up until that point – you even wondered if nights in Paris were always so peaceful. That sound, however, was impossible to ignore; was impossible to not make your heart immediately race.

A scream.

You got up in a jump and approached the window slowly, peeking at it with caution.

The scream came from a nearby street, followed by fast steps. Another scream. It sounded female.

No… it sounded childish.

Maybe it’s nothing. Just a kid spooked by a dog or a rat. Nothing to worry about. You shouldn’t get on your nerves every time you hear a scream.

You stood by the window for some more minutes, your heart thundering nonstop… and nothing appeared. You sighed, tried to calm your already irregular breathing. Focus on a single thing, a simple thing, to muffle everything else–

Someone running down there on the street.

You eyes widened. Your breath got completely caught in your throat.

It was a kid. A small kid, desperately running away from something. A boy. You recognized the worn out clothes and the curly black hair.

The lily in the pocket of your vest seemed to get hot.

It was Oliver.

When he disappeared from your sight, you saw what he was running from: three men. They laughed as they pursued him.

Three vampires.

You grabbed the scepter, the piece of paper and without taking a single second to think, you were already running out of the room.

The only things you could hear were your deep breathing, your thundering heartbeat and your boots rushing on the wooden pavement, then on the stone street as you rushed out of the inn. You almost fell when taking a sudden turn in the direction you saw Oliver running to. The street was completely empty and cold, but your body already felt hot from adrenaline.

You ran as fast as your legs could take. Please let me not be too late please please please please please please please please please–

Another strangled scream followed by more voices coming from an alley nearby.

You didn’t take a second to consider what you were going to do, how you were going to save him from this situation.

You just rushed into it.

“Oliver!” You screamed, stopping on your tracks.

The scene unfolding in front of you made your blood boil in a mix of anger and fright.

Oliver, the little boy, had fallen; his back was pressed against the wall. It was a dead end. His knee bled – he had probably fallen –, tears streamed down his cheeks, his pants were wet. He was shaking; his eyes, the most widened you’d ever seen.

The three vampires cornered him. They wore simple clothes, but all of them shared a similar trait: the symbol of an eclipse burned into the skin of their foreheads.

They immediately turned around at the sound of your voice.

For a moment, everyone was shocked – you, Oliver, the vampires. They were the first ones to recover.

“M-Madame!” Oliver stuttered in a strangled, horrified voice.

The vampire in the middle smirked.

“What do we have here?”

“This is even better than that bastard,” the one on the right laughed. “No one told you to not walk around at night by yourself, sweetie?”

“Leave him alone,” you blurted out. You didn’t sound that frightened, at least, because your body hadn’t properly processed what the hell you had gotten yourself into yet.

“Oh, we might now that you’re here.” One of them said with a disgusting smirk. “And what is it that you’re carrying with you? Looks interesting.”

They started to approach at slow steps.

You knew how vampires acted. They didn’t see you as a threat, so they would not use their inhuman speed. No; they wanted to savor your panic, to make you think you’d have a way out the way they did with Oliver. Vampires acted as cruel hunters, not as animal predators that acted purely on instinct and hunger.

That’s why they didn’t notice when you put your left wrist behind your back and swiftly untied the string.

I’m sorry, Alucard, you thought as the reality of that moment finally hit you. You… you did it again. You put yourself in danger again, exactly the opposite of what Alucard told you to do. But if you had waited for him, if you had untied the string at the inn and then explained what happened and then hoped that Alucard caught the vampires in time, would Oliver still be alive? Would he have an extra minute of luck?

Whatever these vampires were about to do with you – it didn’t matter. You could take it. Oliver couldn’t. The same way Annette wouldn’t have taken the night creature’s bite.

“M-Madame, run!”

His voice caught your attention again.

That little boy had wet himself in fear. He could barely stand. And yet, he was telling you to run. He was worried about your safety.

That little boy.

So small and so fragile and wearing those worn out clothes and shaking and hurt.

It brought forward an instinct within you. Perhaps that same instinct you felt when you looked at Richter’s sad expression. A will to take care. To protect. Something that run deep into your soul, something very familiar in ways you couldn’t explain, as if you had been in a similar situation in the past, as if you had felt this desperate need to protect someone small and fragile and dear to you.

These men were going to kill that little boy and he wouldn’t even be able to fight back.

This strange instinct to protect and the anger towards these men and the revolt because you had been in similar situations too, countless times, and you couldn’t do anything to fight back against a force tenfold stronger than you made your mind go blank.

Blank, blank, blank, devoid of any thought. Any fear. Any hesitance. At that moment, there wasn’t anxiety anymore. Your fingers didn’t shake. You didn’t think of any consequence.

All that existed was the need to protect that little boy.

One of the vampires approached and grabbed the scepter roughly. Instinctively, you held it with both hands, trying to pull it back.

And then – the vampire screamed.

A sizzling noise filled the alley.

“Let me go! Let me go!” He screamed.

The scepter was burning his hands. He couldn’t take them off.

Your mind didn’t register well everything that happened in the following seconds.

The moment you held it with both hands, it started to glow again – but in a different way than before.

The inscriptions started to glow. That same glow traveled from one end to the other – to the tip of the scepter; the image of the sun.

It started to shine.

The light was blinding. You had to tighten your eyes. It was hot hot hot hot, you almost dropped it on the floor, but something told you to keep holding it. So you held it with all your might. You felt a strange wave of energy flow from your body towards the scepter.

The little sun of the scepter shone, brightening the entire alley as if day turned to night–

And the three vampires yelled in agony.

They tried to cover their faces, tried to run away – but it was already too late. Their skin began to burn as if they were set on fire. Their muscle, their clothes, their scalp, their bones, everything was burning. The vampire that tried to grab it was the first to fall on the floor, agonizing, until he finally stopped moving. The other two screamed, yelled with nowhere to run. Their limbs were way too damaged to move.

You felt that your heart was burning, too.

Finally, the burning was too much for you to take. With a scream of effort, you dropped the scepter with a loud metallic noise and fell back on the floor.

The light extinguished.

You panted. You supported your body on your arms. Finally, the screaming stopped.

There were three dead vampires on your feet.

Their carcasses completely burned, unrecognizable. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Smoke clouded the alley.

You started shaking again.

What– What just happened?!

But then, you heard another tiny voice besides yours and you remembered that there was someone you still needed to take care of. You got up from the floor, not daring to touch the scepter again, tip toeing to avoid stepping over the bodies.

You knelt in front of Oliver and held him by both arms.

“What are you doing here at this hour?!” You lashed out. “Alucard told you to not get out at night!”

The boy sobbed.

“I-I-I’m s-sorry, m-madame,” he stuttered between his cries. “I-I-I was t-trying to help. I-I was t-telling people to g-get into their houses. I was already g-going back home…”

You wiped his tears with the sleeve of your blouse before hugging him. Tight. Oliver cried on your shoulder, his little body shaking against yours.

A hand touched your shoulder from behind – which caused you to gasp loudly.

Alucard had the most shocked, confused expression you’d ever seen. It was one of the rare moments when he wasn’t being subtle.

“What happened?” Was all he asked, but it sounded like a demand.

No no no that’s not what you should ask right now. Oliver is the priority.

The boy leaned away from you and you held his shoulders again. “Where do you live?”

He sniffed and rubbed his nose. His little face was all puffy and wet. “T-Two streets away from here.”

You got up and took his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Ruby–“

“Let’s go,” you interrupted Alucard. “I need to take him home.”

Take him home take him home take him home. Yes, this is what I need to do. This is all that matters.

You walked on a beeline with a rushed pace towards the exit of the alley – both the scepter and the piece of paper with your translations completely forgotten on the floor. Alucard followed you closely, but in silence. Oliver’s little hand was still shaking. You held it tightly.

After no more than five minutes of walking, he pointed towards his house. You leaned down and hugged him again.

“Don’t leave your house. Did you understand? Do not walk out under any circumstance. Tell your parents about it.” You repeated in a serious authoritarian tone you didn’t recognize yourself. Have you ever spoken that way before?

Oliver nodded and apologized again. Finally, he waved a last goodbye and entered the house.

It seems that you just started to breathe again when you heard the sound of the door locking.

A few seconds of silence went by.

“Ruby.”

You shivered and turned around.

Alucard looked down at you with frowned eyebrows. Was he angry? Oh fuck, of course he was angry. You put yourself in danger again. You did what you shouldn’t. You got out of the inn without his permission.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt your mission. I hope I didn’t cause any trouble for you,” you started while avoiding his gaze vehemently. Your fingers were trembling again; you hid them behind your back.

“Can you tell me what–“

“Oliver was being chased by vampires. I saw them running through the window and I couldn’t hold myself back. I’m sorry, I know you told me to not put myself in danger. B-But I couldn’t just stay still, you see?” You couldn’t shut up. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why was your voice shaking? “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“I’m not angry at you.”

“And then– the scepter– it did that thing again. I don’t know how that happened. It– it got so hot out of sudden, and then the vampires were burning too. I d-don’t know if I was the one to do it. I just didn’t want Oliver to die. I hope I didn’t cause any trouble.”

“You didn’t, Ruby.”

“Oh– I left if on the floor, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I put you through all the trouble of going back to the Louvre only to drop it at the alley. I s-should take it back. Oh! And I was translating the writings too. I think I dropped the paper… well, I wasn’t translating anything, I was just writing the words in our alphabet, and I don’t know it’ll be useful at all but I wanted to help somehow–“

“Ruby.”

The words got stuck in your throat.

Alucard cupped your face with both hands, forcing you to look at him and nothing else.

He frowned. “You’re burning.”

You blinked rapidly. “What? N-No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I can feel it through the gloves.” Alucard used his teeth to take the glove off his right hand; he pressed it over your forehead. He was probably trying to help, but that action made you feel even hotter on the inside. “We need to do something about it.”

“No!” You blurted out. “No, there’s no need. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll heal. I always do.”

“Ruby.” He called again.

Alucard shoved the glove inside his coat and held your face with both hands again; he lowered himself slightly to get closer to your eye level.

“I am not angry at you.” He started in a slow and quiet voice. “You didn’t interrupt me. You did nothing wrong. But I need you to understand that you are spiraling, and I need you to calm down first.”

S… Spiraling? You were spiraling?

You gulped and nodded.

“Breathe with me.” He instructed patiently.

Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. You followed his slow pace.

Adrenaline dissipated in your bloodstream; your head got quieter again. Your heart stopped running and went back to walking. Your hands, however, were still shaking.

You lowered your head, desperately trying to avoid his gaze, when you felt tears well up your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a weak tone.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Alucard’s voice was even quieter than usual… even gentler. He didn’t step away. His thumb caressed your cheek with care.

“I got so scared. I thought Oliver was going to die.”

Why did you even confess that? You weren’t sure; your brain wasn’t working properly anymore. But yes, that was true. You were scared of getting hurt – you were just used to pain, you didn’t like it – but you were even more scared of seeing that boy die in front of you. So small and so innocent and so familiar for some reason.

Why was that familiar? Why were you so confused? What the hell just happened?

You had no answer to any of these questions. All you wanted to do was cry at that moment – but not in front of him. Never in front of him; it’d be too humiliating. You wanted to step away, to have some space to recover. You wanted to hide from him.

Alucard had other plans.

When the first stubborn tear streamed down your cheek, Alucard pulled you closer to his body. His hands let go of your face; instead, he wrapped his arms around you. He was delicate. Hesitant, even.

Your face was then hidden in his chest.

Alucard didn’t say anything. Perhaps there was nothing he could’ve said at that moment, so he decided to act.

You froze at first. This… this was the closest you’ve ever been to him – at least while fully conscious, a proximity Alucard established willingly. You didn’t even know you had the right to stand that close to him.

When was the last time someone offered you comfort like that?

If it had happened before, you didn’t remember.

Slowly, your body melted under his. Your tense members softened. His sweet scent enveloped you. With much hesitance, you wrapped your arms around his body too, under his cape – and in the moment Alucard realized you accepted his embrace, he held you just a little tighter, a little more comfortable. One of his hands caressed your hair, while the other wrapped around your back.

You did your best to swallow any incoming sobs, forcing yourself to cry in silence. If Alucard even noticed you were crying, he didn’t show it. He just kept his arms around you protectively… affectionately. It made your insides feel warm in a way not even that strange scepter could.

None of you said a word, though there was much to be said. Both of you understood the gravity of what just happened. The three burnt carcasses were there at the alley, waiting to be inspected.

But that could wait for now. Nothing had the right to pierce through the small bubble of peace you shared.

You just stayed there in each other’s embrace for longer than your confused brain could register.

The bright full moon, reining sovereign in the sky, was your only witness.

[waterfal-ling]

zenin's shadow - gojo satoru x reader

SYNOPSIS: Y/N, the outcast daughter of the Zenin Clan, a weapon forged from a forbidden union and raised in isolation. Gifted with immense cursed power, she is treated as little more than an instrument in the clan's pursuit of dominance. Her existence is one of obedience and sacrifice, a life defined by brutal training and a relentless drive to serve. Yet beneath the surface of her rigid purpose, a quiet curiosity about the world beyond the Zenin estate begins to grow. Despite the clan’s control, her strength, independence, and the haunting longing for something more are forces she cannot easily suppress. As she grapples with her role as a pawn in the Zenin Clan’s ruthless games, she must confront the delicate balance between her duty as a weapon and the desire for a life outside their cold walls. In a world where power, control, and family define everything, Y/N must explore the internal struggle of a girl caught between the chains of her bloodline and the faint hope for something beyond the shadows of her clan’s ambition.

GENRE: 18+, angst to eventual fluff

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence, profanity, self-harm, abandonment, mental health struggles, violence, abuse and trauma, gender discrimination (it is the Zenin's afterall), self-discovery -- will probably add more and the warnings for individual chapters if needed, grammar issues here and there - but I will try to catch them if I can.

TAGS: f!reader, strangers to friends to lovers, very slow-burn, angst to comfort to eventual fluff (but angst will be a very on-going thing), gojo being super mean - until he isn't, NOT-ADJACENT (will follow aspects of the original timeline, but I have changed the timings of things - e.g., Haibara and Nanami's mission happens on this chapter prior to the Plasma Vessel mission).

TAGLIST: OPEN

a/n: I have been looking for a story like this and thought "why do I not write it myself." I have not written an actual story in a minuteeee, so forgive me for the lack of dialogue in this chapter - or going forward. I will try to improve my grammar as I go (also shout out to grammarly). Additionally, I want to add that I will try to update every week, but I do have a full time job, so updates may be slow. The first chapter should be posted soon, once I figure out how to post anything since tumblr is not letting me share anything.

COMMENTS, LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED

CHAPTER 1: The Unseen Edge > next

The Zenin estate stood in eternal silence, a monolithic cold stone structure with a shrouded purpose. With its aged, worn flags, the courtyard stretched out before her like an empty battlefield, the sharp, frigid wind cutting through the air. It was a place where the sunlight seemed unwilling to linger as if even the skies above could sense the weight of the tragedy below. The estate was a labyrinth of oppressive halls and dim corridors, each corner hiding the darkness that held the Zenin bloodline together—secrets buried in the foundation of this ancestral house, its walls as cold as the hearts of those who inhabited it.

Her only companion was her training ground, a narrow courtyard with uneven stones. The world outside the Zenin gates was something she had never seen, never touched. Her hands were pale and practiced, the weight of her cursed tool familiar, though it was more of an extension of her body than anything resembling a possession. Her movements were precise and calculated, but no joy was found in them. There was no pride. There was only the quiet desperation of someone raised to obey, to serve, and never to question.

The Zenin Clan was a machine, grinding its members into a single purpose: power. And yet, she was something of a glitch in the design, a pawn with the potential to shatter the very foundation the clan had built its empire.

She had been born out of wedlock, a consequence of a fleeting affair between her mother—a woman whose name had long been erased from history—and a powerful Zenin man. Her birth was an event hidden from the eyes of the clan, a shame that would never be acknowledged. The moment her cursed energy had manifested, however, it had been impossible to ignore. It surged through her like an ancient, untamed force, a power that could not be contained by the delicate web of family politics.

Despite the tumultuous nature of her origins, her father had been forced to bring her into the fold—though not as a daughter, not as a person of value. She was a tool, a weapon to elevate the Zenin name. To him, she was an asset—a cursed daughter whose energy could be used to tip the scales in the clan's favor. Her mother had given her a name, a gift of love and identity, but that was stripped away with no regard for her. She was only the Zenin daughter, a pawn without a face or voice.

Her father had no interest in her humanity, and the clan, in turn, had no interest in her existence. She was not a daughter—she was the embodiment of their ambition, the living proof that the Zenin Clan could control the most powerful forces, even if it meant sacrificing everything.

From the moment her powers were recognized, she was severed from everything that could have made her feel whole. She was trained in isolation, pushed to the limits of her endurance, her strength honed not for survival but for the singular purpose of being a weapon. There were no games for her, no childhood pleasures. The other children in the clan played and laughed in the sun while she was in shadow. The difference between her and them was glaring and cruel: the boys were the heirs, the future of the Zenin bloodline, while she was nothing more than a tool to be wielded.

Her instructors, cold and distant, did not see her as a person but an instrument. They taught her obedience as much as technique. When she asked why she was always kept apart, the answer was as swift as harsh: "You are a woman. Play is a luxury for those who are born to rule. You must train, or you will never be anything."

Her mind, like her body, was forged in that same fire. Years of such words and training had worn her down and conditioned her to accept this path. But inside, the seed of something dangerous had been planted—curiosity—the longing for something more, for something beyond the endless cycle of pain and obedience. But a longing had to be hidden, buried deep, because the Zenin Clan did not reward curiosity. It punished it.

She had been forbidden to venture beyond the courtyard's walls, but sometimes, the pull of the kitchens would bring her close to the laughter of children, to the food she would never taste. Their joy felt like an unbearable weight on her heart, a reminder of the life she would never live. She had learned to keep her distance, to ignore the hunger gnawing at her soul. It was easier that way.

Her punishment for curiosity came swiftly: a slap across the face when she ventured too close, a reminder that her place was far from those who lived freely. "You are not like them," one of the higher-ranked women had sneered. You are here to serve, to be useful, nothing more."

And so she continued her training, her cursed tool always in hand, her movements becoming sharper, more deadly each day. Her only purpose, as always, was to serve the clan.

The courtyard was empty that day, but the stillness felt like the calm before a storm. She stood motionless, waiting for the mission to begin. Her eyes narrowed as she sensed the presence of cursed energy nearby—an unusual, twisting force that hummed with malice. Her heart quickened, her cursed energy thrumming in response, but she had no time for hesitation. When the mission was assigned, it was simple: eliminate a cursed user. A clean task. One that needed no questions, no emotions—just a job to be done. She didn’t need to know why, or who.

The early morning air at the train station felt sharp against her skin, the quiet hum of the platform interrupted by the steady shuffle of people. She stood at the edge, her gaze distant, feeling the subtle hum of cursed energy around her. She kept her awareness sharp. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but she had little interest in the everyday interactions around her. The sound of chatter, the clattering of train wheels, the laughter—it all blurred into the background. But something in the atmosphere today made it linger.

She noticed two figures standing near the end of the platform, moving in sync, their cursed energy standing out from the rest. Their presence was hard to miss.

One of them was a tall, serious figure—his posture straight, his expression calm but focused. The other was the complete opposite: relaxed, easygoing, his energy light and unburdened. His laugh was effortless, and his easygoing manner was a stark contrast to the first.

The two were talking in low voices, the carefree one laughing at something the other said, a genuine sound of amusement. It made her pause. The first man’s stoic composure was the complete opposite of the second’s casual ease. There was something about the second man—his laughter, his warmth—that made her wonder.

She watched them longer than she intended, but their eyes met for a brief moment. The serious man’s gaze swept across her, holding no judgment, but there was a quiet wariness. The moment passed, and she quickly averted her eyes, returning her focus to the world beyond.

She looked out toward the busy streets. The train station buzzed with life, the sounds of people moving, laughing, and talking. Children played, couples shared moments together. It was all so ordinary. But it felt so alien to her. She had spent so much of her life detached from these small, human experiences. She could only wonder what it would be like to be a part of it—to laugh for the sake of laughter, to live without a mission hanging over her.

Could that ever be her?

She shook the thought from her mind. She had a place, a purpose—moving forward, serving the clan. There was no room for such distractions.

The train ride passed by in a blur, the steady rocking of the carriage almost calming in its predictability. Upon arrival, the routine followed. The serious man and the carefree one stepped off the train together, but their path took them in the opposite direction. They were headed elsewhere while her mission awaited.

She didn't spare them another glance as she moved toward her target—an infamous cursed user whose trail had led her here. Her mind focused, her steps determined. The hunt was all that mattered. There was no room for hesitation or doubt.

As the evening drew near, the streets darkened. She walked through narrow alleys, her movements precise, like a well-rehearsed routine. The pulse of cursed energy was faint, but present—just out of sight. Her senses sharpened as she moved forward, aware of every detail.

But then, something strange stopped her in her tracks.

The veil.

Her cursed energy flared for a moment as the veil shimmered in the distance, a presence far beyond anything she had encountered before. It was overwhelming, ancient. She felt its oppressive weight, and for a brief moment, something inside her hesitated.

She had always been alone—detached from the world and its simple connections. But now, something stirred inside her. The serious man and the carefree one—they were already near the veil, facing this overwhelming presence. Were they truly capable of dealing with this?

She paused. Her instincts tugged her toward them.

For a brief moment, she was torn. Her mission was still the priority, but curiosity held her for a second longer.

The hesitation passed.

She moved toward the veil.

From the shadows, she observed. The two men were already in the midst of the challenge, their energies fighting against the overwhelming force. The carefree one, usually so lighthearted, now had a determined focus. The serious one remained calculated, but neither could match the power of what they were facing.

Her gaze narrowed.

She could end it.

Without a word, she stepped forward. Her cursed energy flared, cutting through the air with precision. In a single motion, the veil was shattered, the overwhelming presence dissipating almost instantly. She barely used any of her power; just enough to break through.

The two men looked at her in surprise.

The carefree one stood frozen, his mouth slightly open, caught off guard by the speed and power. He almost seemed like he might speak—perhaps thank her. But she didn’t wait for it.

With swift, decisive steps, she turned away. The air around her felt charged, like a storm about to break. She didn’t need their questions or gratitude. There was no need for thanks. Their curiosity wouldn’t change anything.

The serious man watched her walk away, suspicion beginning to flicker in his eyes. She could feel it—the shift in his focus.

Their gaze lingered, but she didn't look back.

The hunt wasn't over.

But as she searched for her target, the familiar pulse of their cursed energy faded. The trail was gone.

Had they sensed her power?

A feeling of unease settled in her chest, but she dismissed it quickly. There was no time for questions. The mission would continue, as it always did.

The mission was over, and the Zenin Clan responded swiftly and brutally. They were enraged by her actions, her audacity in interacting with the other sorcerers, and her independence. But their anger was muted by something deeper—the fear that her power was a force they could no longer control.

She was summoned back to the estate, her punishment inevitable. The scars would form, as they always did, the pain a constant reminder of her place. They believed this would break her. But they underestimated her.

The fire in her eyes could not be snuffed out by pain. It was a fire that would burn brighter and hotter until she would rise above them all.

She healed swiftly, the reversed cursed technique working magic on her body, but the scars on her soul remained. They could not touch those.

And so she endured.

She was a weapon, a tool of unimaginable power, but she was not finished yet. Yes, she was a Zenin daughter, but that was not all she was. And she would find a way to be more.

No matter the cost.

But the truth was, she was finished. The Zenin estate had no place for her beyond her usefulness. The fleeting moments when she could glimpse at something beyond the shadows—those brief seconds of curiosity—were long gone. The world outside was an illusion, a dream never meant to be hers.

She would always return to the cold stone, the empty courtyard, the echo of footsteps that meant nothing to anyone but herself.

The Zenin Clan had made her, and they would break her. And in the end, she would be no more than a footnote in the history of their ambition.

A shadow, always watching but never seen. A tool, always wielded but never acknowledged.

In this world, she was extra. Always a part of the background but never indeed seen.

[moobloom11]

Johnathan Byers <3

I don't see enough people putting respect on Jonathan's name. Jonathan might honestly be one of my favourite characters because he is just one of the best people ever??

His relationship with Will is so important to me and has been since I started watching the show. He is constantly supportive and never gives up on his brother. When he believes him to be alive in season 1 he NEVER stops trying to find him; he does everything he can to try and get his baby brother back. He takes it upon himself to create and distribute missing posters when his mother doesn't have the time, he visits the home of his abusive dirtbag of a father because he'll be damned if he doesn't check even the worst possible option if there's any chance that he'll find Will there. In season 2, he comforts Will, listens when his little brother expresses his frustrations with people treating him "like a baby" and, unlike most people, who would tell Will that they're ‘doing it for his own safety', he adjusts his behaviour to keep his brother happy and feeling independant while also making sure he knows that needing support is ok. In season 3, he drops everything the moment Nancy even insinuates that Will might not be safe and puts his own life at risk without second thought to protect his brother and the other kids. Season 4 speaks for itself because, even while he's dealing with his own issues in some noooottt so healthy ways (being stoned all the time) he still takes notice of his brother's distress and pain, apologises for his own behaviour and makes sure Will knows he is loved and always will be loved no matter what (I could go on for days about that scene alone, makes me cry every time).

Also not strictly about Jonathan himself but I just adore the fact that, in season 4, we can see how Will has picked up on some of Jonathan's tendencies and habits as a brother and emulates this in his relationship with El (the protectiveness, methods of support, and even some of his body language and facial expressions in certain scenes resembles that of Jonathan’s).

(And I love that we also see Jonathan treat El like a sister immediately. The Byers-Hopper family are my Roman Empire I love them).

I know some people will disagree but I also think he is honestly a great boyfriend. (Yes he has his flaws in season 4 with the college application and his keeping of this information from Nancy but I can totally see the reason why he does it and it's honestly heartbreaking that he's willing to sacrifice a place in his dream college to support his family). Not to ramble about shipping in a character appreciation post but I think Jonathan and Nancy work so much better than Nancy and Steve because their relationship is truly founded in friendship and mutual respect. Jonathan clearly fell in love with Nancy at some point when she was still dating Steve but he never acted on it until she did. He treated her with kindness and supportiveness regardless of circumstance and that's what made her fall for him. I think the biggest evidence of Jonathan being a fantastic boyfriend is actually their fight in season 3. After both being fired from the Hawkins Post, they're frustrated with each other for equally valid reasons. Jonathan had a right to be angry, as did Nancy, but he showcased his brilliant boyfriend material by recognising that they were both right and wrong and choosing to take responsibility, apologise and he and Nancy worked it out together. Because of both of their openness to understanding one another, they were able to reconcile and work it out (communication which is extremely important to maintaining a healthy relationship!!)

I am going to quickly mention the photo-taking session because, while I understand that it was wrong of him to do, I fully stand by the opinion that he felt terrible about doing it and didn't take the pictures for any malicious reason (or any reason at all seemingly? The way the show presents this scene as a whole is just really confusing to me tbh). I think the most telling thing is that Nancy herself seemed neither creeped out or especially upset by the photos themselves and very quickly forgave Jonathan. I'm not saying what he did was good and it definitely was an uncalled-for invasion of privacy, but I hate it when people act like his character is 'irredeemable' when he did one morally dubious thing that he clearly felt completely awful about very shortly after. I like Steve as a character and 100% think he redeemed himself from season 1 but I can't handle it when people praise Steve for his development and change, excusing his actions entirely, then turn around and call Jonathan a bad guy for this one act.

I don’t think we talk about Jonathan’s character nearly enough and, resultantly, I think his own problems get swept under the rug both in the show and in the fandom. I see so many people insulting him for being stoned in season 4 and ‘having no personality’ throughout the series and it really makes me sad. Jonathan cares about his family SO MUCH that he’s willing to give up his dream college he’s wanted to go to since he was six years old so that he can stay behind to support his mother and family. He turns to drugs to deal with his own problems, which, as unfortunate as it is, is a very common coping mechanism and completely understandable for his character. He is trying to deal with his own trauma, personal problems and general life while maintaining a healthy and committed (now long-distance) relationship with his girlfriend and acting as a carer to now not one but two siblings. It’s a hell of a lot for anyone to deal with and I’m sick of people sympathising with just about every other character’s trauma and understanding their coping mechanisms but seemingly refusing to do the same for Jonathan.

Anyways I could genuinely go on about this character for days because I just adore him. I think he’s an amazing brother, son, boyfriend and all around person and I want to see people appreciating him more. I am a Jonathan Byers defender, apologist, protector, lover and stan until the end.

[smoked-salmon-official]

After a long absence I am back… with …

Drift: Empire of Stone issue 4

Oh yeah !!

GRIT NO

Drift do something come on ya gotta

They-they stood next to each other…

HOLY SHIT GET OUT OF THERE!

BOOM!

:)

Oh… I love them, I love their relationship from how it grows in phase 1 all the way to now. I’m glad someone saw that it was unfair to toss him out of the LL. Came into this not really shipping it and I still think they are better as friends but I can see it now.

Grit… yes !!!

[kittyit]

well let me start off by saying that neither ww1 nor ww2 were actually called that during their durations so expecting any country leader to stand up and say "hey this is ww3 right here" is non-sentical, it would be a career suicide (in the reasonable parts of the world anyway, not USA). The image of ww3 is almost universally used as fearmongering and announcing it at any official capacity would send the world into panic mode, which is very counterproductive to any party.

Notice how any currently ongoing grab for land (by which I'll be further meaning Russian invasion into Ukraine, genocide in Gaza and Azerbaijan occupation of Artsakh though I'm sure there are more things I'm not fully in touch with) explicitly avoids being called war as well. They're always reclamation that, special military operation this. This is entirely intentional because nobody wants a fucking war but minds a military operation.

That aside now think about the ongoing issues too. War in Ukraine, Ukrainian side is supplied by the western powers/NATO, Russian side is supplied by Iran, North Korea, China. This is basically repeating the lineup of the cold war with some adjustments with Ukraine as a testing ground for weapons. But we'll have to examine that further than just Putin loosing his marbles at long last because this is a part of a long lived imperialist pipe dream of restoring USSR/Russian Empire; it is geopolitically motivated at the top levels and xenophobically at the low levels. Not that Putin and his underlings don't believe Ukrainians are lesser people, they just don't care about that as much as they care about conquering the parts of Ukraine that are the most resource lucrative - the eastern coal, steel and previous stone mines, the southern parts with open access to black sea, famously lucrative Ukrainian agrarian regions. They already profit off it so this is neither simply political agenda nor a blatant cash grab, it's both a fascist, imperialist ideology combined with a land grab rush. Which they are winning.

And if we look into Armenia vs Azerbaijan situation then you'd notice it looks very similar. Azerbaijan #1 ride or die ally is Turkey, and Armenia is located very inconveniently in geopolitical terms, nevermind the fact that it has already suffered a genocide and had land taken. It's common knowledge that Turkey also has a pipe dream of restoring the Ottoman Empire. Source: 1) they tell on themselves constantly if you pay attention 2) the entire invasion of Cyprus for no fucking reason in 20th century 3) the tongue-in-cheek diplomacy with Greece for ages. Both Armenia and Azerbaijan were once part of the Ottoman Empire, and while it is doubtful that Azerbaijan would officially join Turkey provided an opportunity, they're close allies to the point where things like borders don't really matter (Russia and Belarus are similar, though there actually was an attempt to unite them legally that kinda fell through). But Turkey is in NATO and is posing as an overall Good Guy so Erdogan would never actually put his act where his mouth and ideas is. Now "tiny irrelevant" Azerbaijan, supplied by Turkic weaponry (which is nothing to scoff at - they do supply NATO fyi)? Easy. And there we have another ethnic cleansing and an open intend to go whole way.

Now some were suprised by Russia standing aside in Artsakh when they were supposed to help their ally but you can't miss out on the context that Armenia was never a full hearted ally of Russia and was basically forced to join the alliance out of fear of eradication, and Russian troops were actually on site of Artsakh helping the Azeri side. This has not come as a surprise to Armenians who were wholly aware of their political situation, because we need to keep in mind that Putin is friends with Erdogan (because he helped negotiate the Black Sea routes with Putin - remember that?), and by extension is married to the "let's restore the Ottoman Empire" imperialist dream. It holds little threat to him because one, Erdogan owes Russia in both economy and help with Artsakh, and two, Russia does still have more military power than Turkey has.

Putin's hand and approval partially guided the invasion in Artsakh and fully guides the war in Ukraine, he is also on good terms with Netanyahu, Israeli soldiers in Gaza use Russian's handbook on propaganda and public relationships. Also China is supplying Russia and North Korea, so there's also that. Also Russian presence in Africa, forgot to mention that. On the "western" side we have America and other NATO members supplying Ukraine, Belarus is so fully immersed into Russia people forget it's a state, Poland and Baltics all but openly stating they're preparing for invasion in case Ukraine loses and ceases to exist - which is will, and sooner rather than later. What's in it for USA? Land and money, mostly tbh. It's not about defeating Putin, it never was (Trump fucking loves him but nothing will stop him from switching up when Putin inevitably attacks Poland/Finland/etc as he has already stated he intends to), but trapping already broke eastern Europe in even more unpayable debt which they will be forced to pay off in labor and resources, as well as some ideological boost of morale? Please.

Empires' dick measuring contest, doesn't that remind you of anything? It will be more complicated than both of the previous world wars because we also have late stage capitalism and propaganda machines unlike anything humanity has ever seen before, but structurally, it will be more reminiscent of ww1 than ww2.

We don't call it WW3 despite how many countries are involved politically and financially *yet* because nothing has so far happened on American or Western European soil nor have either started a draft, but I think it's fairly safe to say we're in the beginning years of one, think 1939, especially with a fascist government rising to power in USA. So my answer is yes, ww3 full swing in the following 10 years is almost guaranteed, but we're kind of already in one in everything but name.

That said, I might be biased, seeing as I am Ukrainian.

thanks for sharing your thoughts. honestly this is out of my wheelhouse as I'm slowly understanding more and more geopolitics but I appreciate you explaining your perspective and it's valuable to hear from a Ukrainian sister. wishing you nothing but the best

[poisamm]

S M O K E A N D S U G A R

a Coyote Ugly x College AU

Part 1

content warning: none really, intros to Miguel and Amara, both are a little shy and awkward, he forms a crush slow but fast all at the same time. but will go on to be suggestive so dni minors, and go on about class difference and other stuff.

word count: 3,175 (mostly proofread, she’s a long one oops!)

Kind of the trope of opposites attract, tall big bf and shorter thicker gf, STEM bf and creative gf, nerdy bf and alt gf vibes :)

I took a lot of self liberty on certain things so if they’re not canon to comics that’s why, but 1992 run and other runs of Spider-man 2099 will be incorporated

i was highly inspired by Crazy Rich Asians the books and movie, Spider-Man movies, my own college experience and talented writers like @bluesidez @feyhunter78 @cheonstapes giving y’all your accolades and flowers fr🫶

Part 2 🍒⋆｡°✩🔬⋆｡°✩ Masterlist

Born in Manhattan to Conchata O’Hara, a formidable lawyer with sky-high expectations, and Tyler Stone, a wealthy CEO more interested in boardrooms than bedtime stories, Miguel’s world was one of sharp edges and colder comforts that have only warmed as of late. His father’s sudden interest in his life came only after the dust of his infidelity settled—when the scandal was quieter and the damage was done. It didn’t matter much. Miguel had long learned to rely on himself, but could acknowledge his dad was at least trying though. Plus the money he gets and the car he drives wasn’t too bad either.

Raised primarily by his mother and stepfather, George O’Hara—a cyber engineer who wrestled with his own demons before finding sobriety—Miguel’s home life was complicated. Kron, his competitive half-brother, took every chance to remind him of his shortcomings, turning sibling rivalry into something resembling a COD lobby—seriously the amount of times the boys scrapped was insane. The only real peace Miguel found was with his maternal grandparents and younger brother, Gabriel—the only people who saw him, not just the expectations placed upon him.

Now 21 and a senior at Empire State University, Miguel poured himself into his Applied Biology major with a focus in Genetics. He lived by structure—early mornings at the campus gym, black coffee or a protein shake in hand, nights spent buried in lab reports. He chased excellence like a man trying to outrun his own shadow, determined to earn his master’s and PhD, dreaming of genetic advancements that could actually change lives.

But even a man like Miguel—stoic, hyper-focused, a perfectionist to the bone—needed a break sometimes.

That’s how he found himself in Media Literacy.

Well, it was a last-minute elective—one he chose more for convenience than curiosity—but the syllabus promised less memorization and equations, which felt like a small mercy.

Amara Reyes lived her life with her feet planted firmly on the ground, even if her heart sometimes wanted to float away.

Born in Staten Island to a lower/middle-class family, Amara had spent her life working—working to be the daughter her parents wanted, working to prove herself in every classroom, working to carve out her own path. After high school, she moved to Florida with her family since they wanted to leave the island, so she took a gap year before starting college there. But the Sunshine State didn’t feel like home. It didn’t really work for her ideal career.

So New York called her back.

Now 21 and a junior at Empire State University, Amara studied Communications with a minor in Entrepreneurship. She hustled hard, attending on a waiver, juggling classes and her involvement with The Beacon—the university’s paper and magazine—where she designed, and wrote, and then the communication club where managed their social media pages and helped coordinate events on campus. She had a great roommate, Jess Drew, the girls got along and hardly ever had issues from being so in sync.

But when the sun set, Amara had another life entirely.

From Thursday to Sunday, 8 PM to midnight, she worked at Coyote Ugly as a Coyote Girl—bartending, dancing on the bar, and pocketing tips big enough to keep her afloat with whatever her waivers and parents couldn’t cover. The bar was more than a job; it was an escape. A place where she could be bold and untouchable—red nails, sharp winged eyeliner, and her body moving to the music, it was good dopamine.

She was both parts—smoke and sugar—a girl who could charm you with a remark but never let you get too close, unless she opened up, rarely.

They met on a Monday, first day of the semester around noon.

Media Literacy was packed—mostly with Communications majors Amara already knew, either through classes or The Beacon. She felt at ease, slipping into her usual rhythm, greeting familiar faces with small smiles and hellos.

Miguel, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb.

He was too tall for the cramped desks, all 6’6 of him hunched over his laptop, and too serious, his jaw tight, a black coffee on the table in front of him. His broad frame looked better suited for a gym than this class, and Amara noticed how his dark eyes skimmed the room—calculating, cautious. Out of place.

When she scanned for a seat, she spotted an ideal spot—close enough to the board that she could see without straining (she needed that, switching between her glasses and contacts as often as she did), and next to an outlet for charging her phone.

And, well… the cute guy sitting there didn’t hurt either.

With a slight hesitation—because, really, why was she nervous?—Amara slipped into the seat beside him.

Miguel barely looked up at first, just a brief glance. But once she settled in, pulling out her laptop that has stickers on them and adjusting her black-rimmed glasses, his gaze flicked back.

He noticed the small details—her curly brunette hair with bold red and blonde chunky highlights on the left side of her hair, the glimmer of her hoop nose ring, the three tattoos dancing along her right arm, the sharp black eyeliner and the way her acrylic stiletto nails tapped softly against the keys, not in an obnoxious way like most would think, though.

His legs are long, his broad frame making the space he had at the long table with 5 seats along the row feel even smaller, but he keeps his focus locked on his laptop looking at the class’ canvas page. His jaw works — tense, contemplative — but he’s careful not to make it too obvious that he’s stealing glances at Amara.

Then a girl with bangs and the comfiest outfit sat next to Amara with a ‘hey mama!’—she seemed to know everyone in the class. The girls chatted a bit till the professor started speaking in the lecture hall.

Amara leaned her elbow against the desk, resting her chin in her hand as she stares at the projector after the professor switched the slides during his introductions about himself, his education, stuff he likes—he’s a Trekkie—and his wife and pets. Amara knew all of this since she’s had the professor before and he was cool. But she’s acutely aware of Miguel sitting next to her — the way his cologne smells, like cedarwood and something spiced, the way he moves with this calculated control, like he’s perpetually holding something back. Probably cause he was a big dude and aware of the space he took up.

God. He’s really cute. Like… annoyingly cute.

The professor’s voice echoes through the room, “Alright, enough of me, let’s get started. Just go down the list, take turns asking each other the questions. It’s not that deep.”

Amara shifts in her seat, her curls falling over one shoulder, and offers Miguel a slightly awkward smile, she and the girl next to her, Jen, knew each other already so she had to talk to the guy next to her. “Guess we should just… start.”

Miguel’s lips twitch at the corner, not quite a smile, but enough for her to notice. “Yeah.” His voice is deep, smoother than she expects.

She taps her nails against the table idly looking at the projector of the icebreaker prompt then back at Miguel. “Okay… what’s your name?”

“Miguel O’Hara.”

There’s a moment of silence as Amara processes it. It suits him — sharp and memorable, she hummed.

“You?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

“Amara Reyes.”

Miguel repeats her name in his head like he’s etching it into his memory. Amara. He likes the way it sounds — "to love", nice meaning.

“Major?” she continues, keeping her tone light, though her heart’s beating faster than it should be. She usually was shyer with new people regardless.

“Applied Biology. Genetics.” He watches her expression shift — eyebrows raising slightly, lips parting. He knows the reaction — most people don’t expect a guy like him to be in science, let alone genetics.

“Whoa,” she says, blinking. “That’s… intense.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“What about you?” he asks, though he already has a guess — she carries herself like someone in the creative field, not a STEM person really.

“Communications,” she says, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Minor in Entrepreneurship.”

Miguel’s head tilts again, like he’s trying to figure her out. “That tracks.”

Amara squints. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smirks — not in a cocky way, but in that almost shy, hesitant way like he doesn’t want to offend her. “Just… you seem like you know how to talk to people.”

Her cheeks warm. “I’m actually not that great at it.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling too hard. Focus, Amara.

They go down the list, the conversation flowing easier than either of them expected.

“Where are you from?”

“Staten Island, but I moved to Florida after high school. Came back to New York for this. You?.”

“Manhattan, Midtown really. Born and raised.”

Then comes the next question. “Guilty pleasure?” Amara reads out loud, already feeling a little amused about what she’s about to say.

Miguel leans back slightly, one arm resting on the back of his chair. “You first.”

She narrows her eyes at him playfully. “Why me?”

“’Cause I wanna hear yours first.”

Amara sighs. “Jersey Shore. But from the second season cause everyone in the house knows each other better and it’s more iconic when they were in Miami. And I’m not guilty about it.”

Miguel blinks, then his lips quirk up in genuine amusement. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” She grins. “It’s entertaining, I love it.”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “It’s been trending again so that makes sense I guess. My mom used to watch it but like hate watched kinda but then liked it.”

She laughed. “Makes sense.“ She then tilted her head. “Well… if we’re talking actual guilty pleasures… I do fall down Hollywood deep dive rabbit holes sometimes.”

Miguel raises a brow. “Like… celebrity gossip?”

Amara scoffs. “Not gossip — history. Like how celebrities careers actually were, or like the history behind movies. I know the most random stuff about pop culture moments.”

Miguel’s grin lingers. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Just… didn’t expect that either.”

Her nail taps against her laptop. “Alright, your turn. Spill.”

He hesitates — just long enough for her to notice — then mutters, “Old novelas.”

Amara’s eyes widen. “What?”

Miguel shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “My abuela used to watch them all the time when I was a kid. I still watch them sometimes.”

“Like Rubí?” she asks, biting back a laugh.

“Yeah,” Miguel says, a little sheepish but not embarrassed.

“That’s… kinda adorable,” Amara teases, but there’s a warmth to her voice. “My parents love El Señor de los Cielos”

“Good show,” he nodded, glad she didn’t think it was a bad thing.

The last question hovers between them: Tell me something about yourself.

Miguel taps fingers against his notebook, thinking. “I wake up at 5 AM every day to work out.”

Amara’s jaw drops. “Five?”

“Yeah.”

“Willingly?”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah.”

“You’re crazy.”

Miguel leans forward slightly, resting his arm on the desk. “What about you?”

Amara hesitates, then says, “I’ve had my nose pierced three times.”

Miguel’s brows knit together, and for the first time, he really looks at the hoop in her nose — delicate, with tiny diamonds. “Three times?”

She nods, lips quirking. “First time was normal. Then, the piercing fell out. I went to get it back in, wouldn’t go in, waited two weeks and got it redone, but the jewelry was an L shape — wrong kind — so it fell out again.” She laughs softly. “Had to wait a year to get it done right. They even had to put iodine up my nose and everything.”

Miguel winces. “Iodine?”

“Yeah. Felt weird, inside my nose was like orange for a bit, but it barely hurt getting done.”

He laughed. “Looks good now, though.”

Amara blinks. “Thanks.”

The professor claps his hands, pulling the class back to order. “Alright! Hope you all learned something new about each other. Let’s move on.”

Amara glances at Miguel one last time before turning back to the professor, her heart still doing that stupid fluttery thing.

And Miguel — well, he’s already replaying her laugh in his head.

The first few weeks of the semester unfolded like a slow burn — steady, unspoken rhythms forming.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, Miguel finds himself arriving to Media Literacy a little early, not just because he’s prompt to classes — but because Amara always gets there a few minutes before him. Without fail, she slides into her usual seat: second row, close to the board, next to an outlet. The first time it might’ve been coincidence, the second time routine — but now, Miguel wonders if it’s a silent agreement between them, an unspoken decision that yeah, we sit next to each other.

She always has her headphones in when she walks in, big over-ear ones that match her all-black laptop bag, jingling softly with every step because of the keychains hooked onto it — a silver skull, a tiny plush hello kitty, and a heart-shaped charm with a spiderweb design. Her jewelry only adds to the jingling— silver and crystal pendant necklaces layered at her neck, the small hoop in her nose catching the light every time she moves. She practically chimes when she sits down.

Her scent always hits him next — smokey, warm vanilla, but not the overly sweet kind. It’s richer, like burnt sugar and something dark, with a faint undertone of black cherry — probably from the hand sanitizer she pulls out every time she settles into her seat. He doesn’t mean to notice this much, but it’s hard not to when she’s right there, and the smell lingers even after she’s gone.

She always says hi.

It’s never just a nod or a wave — it’s always, “Hey, Miguel”. He likes the way she says his name, even if it makes his stomach twist a little more than he’s willing to admit.

The class itself is… fine. The professor’s energetic enough, pacing at the front of the room while talking about media echo chambers, power structures, and the way people consume information. It’s interesting, sure — but what’s more interesting is Amara.

She’s locked in when it matters — eyes slightly narrowed, lips pursed, typing in bursts on her laptop — but she’s also always doing something creative before class officially starts. Some days, it’s doodling on a digital canvas, her stylus tapping softly against the screen as she works on graphics for The Beacon or content for the comm club’s socials. Other days, it’s designing a flyer or scrolling through Pinterest. Miguel pretends not to glance, but he catches enough to know she’s not just messing around — it’s all purposeful, even if it looks casual.

Once, mid-lecture, the professor brings up Foucault — something about power and knowledge being intertwined — and Miguel watches Amara’s head snap up, her fingers immediately flying across her keyboard. She’s not typing notes, though — he can tell by the way her face scrunches in that determined, focused way — she’s Googling something.

Sure enough, a minute later, she mutters, “Found it,” under her breath — Power/Knowledge by Michel Foucault — free PDF download flashing on her screen.

Miguel can’t help but smirk. “You really just downloaded the whole book?” he whispers.

Amara flicks her gaze to him, her lips twitching. “What? I’m curious.”

That’s something else about her — she’s curious in a way that’s not performative. She doesn’t care about sounding smart; she is smart, and she asks questions without dressing them up in flowery language. She has this way of connecting ideas — tying media literacy back to American individualism or how the general public is responsible for who gets a platform so yes it matters if a controversial person has so many people say ‘well i’m just one person’ it ends up being everyone and that sentiment was individualistic. She doesn’t talk to sound important. She talks to make sense of things.

And Miguel respects that — a lot.

The discussions are the best part of the class, though.

Every time they pair up or break into small groups, Miguel notices how Amara leans into the conversation — not just skimming the surface, but really thinking. Like when they talk about media bias, and she offhandedly says, “People don’t want to hear things that aren’t comfortable or opposite of what they believe, it doesn’t matter if it’s truth or not, it’s aligned with what they want to hear,”

Miguel just stares at her for a second before saying, “That’s a good point.”

Amara’s used to people agreeing just to move the conversation along — but with Miguel, she can tell he means it. He doesn’t add fluff; he just acknowledges when something’s smart.

Outside of class, their interactions are brief but consistent.

Sometimes, Miguel spots her on campus — usually alone, clutching a book she got for free from the library’s withdrawn section. It’s never just fiction — she’s always walking around with some random communication theory book, a collection of essays about film, or a philosophy text. He wonders how her brain isn’t constantly on fire with all the things she’s thinking about.

Other times, he notices how she interacts with people in class — like the girl named Jen who always greets Amara with a cheerful, “Hello, my dear,” or, “Hey, mama.” Amara always responds in kind, asking about Jen’s day or their shared classes, her voice warm but laid-back. She doesn’t cling to anyone, though — more often than not, she’s on her own before and after class, scrolling through her phone or reading.

Then there’s the other stuff Miguel starts to pick up on.

Like how Amara’s emotions are always on her face, despite her resting bitch face.

The first time someone mentions Elon Musk in class — something about him “innovating” media platforms — Amara visibly cringes. It’s not subtle either. Her nose wrinkles, her lips flatten, and her whole body leans back like she’s just smelled something awful.

Miguel bites back a laugh.

And when someone makes a comment about how people just need to stop being so sensitive about media representation, Amara’s reaction is instant. Her brows shoot up, her mouth opens slightly, and her head tilts — a perfect picture of are you serious?

She doesn’t let it slide, either. “It’s not about being sensitive — it’s about acknowledging how representation shapes perception, that empathy should be normalized, godforbid a human basic trait is used. You can’t pretend things exist in a vacuum.”

Miguel finds himself waiting for those moments now — those flashes of honesty in her expressions and the way she speaks up without hesitation.

She had this quietly intimidating, don’t-mess-with-me-but-I’m-nice-if-you-don’t-be-stupid kind of way.

It’s hard not to be drawn to that.

So every time Amara slips into class with her jingling bag, her smokey vanilla and black cherry scent, and her casual, “Hey, Miguel,” — he feels it a little more.

God. He’s screwed.

dividers by @enchanthings and @horangipilled

[curse-d-owl]

I've always wanted to remake my post regarding my criticism for Three Hopes's treatement of Claude's character and his route cause i realized alot more errors his character has both from thinking about the route and reading some other posts from other people.

As a disclaimer I'm not against the concept of Claude temporarily teaming up with Edelgard in order to get rid of the central church cause they keep Fodlan shackled to the past. The issue is that this concept not match the foundation of the story.

But all that aside here is why Claude's character got butchered and his route is a two pack of ass.

Starting with his character in Houses he's clever and ambitious, he condemns resorting to war before using diplomacy, knows that Edelgard's war is wrong and that she needs to be stopped, he wants every race to make amends and put their troubled history in the past, he doesn't cling onto grudges and knows when to fight, knows how to fight strategically and knows when to give up for the sake of avoiding needless casualties and lastly Leicester is nothing but a stepping stone for him to achieve his goals. He isn't so patriotic to a place he barely lived in to the point of wanting to preserve it's glory.

Hopes Claude is the exact opposite of his og counterpart and does the exact opposite things.

Moving onto story grievances:

All the build up of Leicester vs Adrestia in part 1 gets thrown out the window. Especially when Holst vs Leopold was hyped up to be a strong and climactic rivalry

Caspar is hellbend on killing Leicester soldiers despite the fact they're retreating and yet has the audacity to play the victim and resent Leicester for giving them a taste of their own medicine.

He sides with his aggressors who stop at nothing to conquer Leicester and sides against his allies who actually work to right the wrongs of Fodlan, for 2 years straight and not one protest from Rhea before she lost her church to Edelgard.

Claude doesn't use Edelgard at all, he gets used

Claude is reduced to Edelgard's errand boy and babysitter.

3/4 of a continent with violent aggressors from the north against 1/4 of a continent does not make for a good nor interesting story. Doubly so when Houses has him outmaneuver the empire with limited numbers and resources.

Edelgard spits in Claude's face and tells him it's raining by denying her violent invasion in Leicester and barks at him for being the overemotional aggressor who doesn't want peace in their meeting. You know who else pulled this repulsive stunt if invading a nation and lying about it? Gangrel, the repulsive villain of Awakening. Not a good look for a character that's supposed a righteous saviour.

Hubert resorting to blackmailing into signing that pact through empty threats despite Claude only disagreeing with the southern church. He tells Claude that if Leicester does not do Adrestia's dirty work they will attack them. Adrestia doesn't care for Leicester and doesn't stop at a non aggression pact nor offering restitution out of remorse.

Edelgard has no remorse about the deaths of Leicester she caused nor using them but the game shames Claude for prioritizing his allies over Empire soldiers.

He has a violent grudge against Faerghus over some old shit from centuries ago but doesn't have one for Adrestia for being the cause of everyone's suffering, the obstacle to peace and being the only faction that hurt Leicester.

At the same time he complains that Almyra gets hated for their long history of invasions that continued to the present. And yet he justifies burning down Faerghus over the past.

And on top of that he has the nerve to accuse Rhea of chaining Fodlan to the past while he did the same with Leicester by using Faerghus's past aggressions against Leicester to justify their invasion.

Leicester is uncomfortable potentially killing Ferdinand and Edelgard despite the fact they violently invaded and endangered Leicester but have no qualms about burning Faerghus to the ground over false accusations towards Rhea and has no qualms endangering Sreng and creating more bad blood by luring them into their war.

He has no qualms sacrificing the citizens and soldier from Faerghus for "the greater good" and yet doesnt want to kill Edelgard despite being the cause of this war, the obstacle to peace, having zero remorse for endangering and killing Leicester for the sake of conquest and lied to Claude about the crimes she committed.

In Houses Shamir apologized to Petra for Dagda dragging Brigid in their war against Fodlan and but in Hopes she aids Claude in luring Sreng into his war. Another victim of Golden Wildfire's character assassination.

The federation plot point is poorly handled. While it is interesting that they finally highlight the issue of the roundtable it is irrational of Claude to eternally reshape Leicester to consolidate power into one ruler and strip away power from everyone else. Like Shez mentioned in their support with Claude it should've been a temporary change, not a permanent one.

Lysithea herself has an extremely troubled history with the Empire for what they did against her, her parents and her people. None of this gets properly addressed per usual.

Pulls an Ionus and violently oppresses the 3 territories for not wanting to lose their independence and that doesn't get addressed at all. Which is especially egregious considering Lysthiea was a victim of the exact same oppression.

Claude selectively whines about all the crimes and political meddling that Faerghus has inflicted on Leicester but doesn't have the same energy towards Adrestia for being guilty of the same crimes + violently hurting Lysithea.

It's made even worse when Erwin apologized to Lysthia for not being able to help house Ordelia's oppression at the hands of the empire. This paralouge happens after they team up with said aggressors.

He blames Faerghus for their deaths caused by his unjustified invasion instead of taking accountability.

The game wants you to feel bad for Adrestian invaders being sacrificed to secure Leicester a safe victory ( the same thing that Adrestia did with Leicester + something Claude calls out in his speech in Scarlet Blaze ) but not for the citizens of Faerghus being killed for Edelgard's selfish goals.

Claude sympathizes with Fleche's anger towards Leicester for killing Randolph but not only doesn't he extend that same grace to Sylvain for killing their father but he brushes him off as a selfish whiner with no self awareness by bringing up the fact that Leicester also puts their life's on the line. The Adrestia bias is beyond blatant.

His plan of getting the kingdom to cut ties with the church + stop Edelgards war by violently invading Faerghus is one of pure idiocy cause again, the kingdom and church already work hard to move away from crests and nationalism and Edelgard will not stop until she has conquered Fodlan for herself.

Has the audacity to claim he's gonna end the war in a way that spares many lives when his way is violently invading Faerghus and dragging Sreng into their war.

Drags Sreng into it when:

1. They already have a massive advantage against the kingdom

2. Neither the empire nor Sreng cares about stopping at Rhea, they both want to conquer Faerghus

3. Creates more prejudices and bad blood

4. Goes against Claude learning to trust his allies and not sacrifice more lives than he needs to by provoking a foreign nation into sacrificing their lives for conquest.

First claims he doesn't know what goes on in Dimitri's head when others ask Claude to request help from Dimitri and then in his invasions claims he hopes to get it through Dimitri's thick skull as if he defends the central church and it's harmful tenets for funsies. It's made even worse when he has open dialouge with his actual aggressor Edelgard.

Expects an honest conversation with Dimitri and one where agrees with him after violently invading Faerghus.

The one golden opportunity to get rid of Adrestia by killing Edelgard and he instead protects Edelgard all cause he felt bad about Randolph. Cause per usual with the Fodlan writers Edelgard can do no wrong and anyone that gives her a taste of her own medicine is the real villain. And this is the Claude that's allowed to be a schemer and a cold hearted opportunist by GW fans lmao.

Doesn't want to leave Edelgard for dead because he believes another Fleche situation will arise. He illogically correlates 2 completely circumstances because of 1 similarity.

Claude himself said people must prioritize progress over aversion to backlash in his support with Dimitri, this illogical decision contradicts his stance.

Not to mention Adrestia has no moral high ground to want revenge against Leicester considering their the aggressors who did this to themselves.

Claude will be forced to deal with the empire regardless if Edelgard is alive or not. The clear difference is that Edelgard's existance means that the empire is a cohesive unit and a major threat for Fodlan and her death would turn Adrestia in a disorganized mess that's easier to deal with.

Claude values the life of his Adrestian classmates despite the fact they had no qualms nor remorse about killing Leicester but Edelgard doesn't extend the same grace in Scarlet Blazer when Claude rightfully launches a retaliatory attack on the Adrestian empire.

Accuses Rhea for being responsible for the war when all she did was fight back against people trying to kill her and not Edelgard.

Irrationally kills Rhea and is now left with:

A violent empire that has won and comes for Leicester next

A kingdom who has suffered many wounds cause of Leicester, is as good as conquered according to Scarlet Blaze's bad ending and lost their archbishop

Many devout believers that resent both Leicester and Adrestia

More bad blood and deaths between Sreng and Faerghus

The accusations against Almyra gets proven instead of debunked.

Defeating the empire would not cause Leicester to hate their own king, bad blood between Leicester, Faerghus, the church and Sreng and not tarnish Almyra's reputation.

He has put himself in the bad ending of Scarlet Blaze all because Hopes Claude got dropped on his head when he was an infant and thought that this was the best course of action.

It's beyond contrived how Leicester is fine with sacrificing their lives to do Adrestia's dirty work and endangering themselves being conquered by them.

Hopes Claude is objectively one of the worst and dumbest lords in Fire Emblem alongside Conquest Corrin and Edelgard and i get a headache everytime people claim Houses and Hopes Claude are the same or worse claim that Hopes Claude is better. The only people that claim Golden Wildfire is good are whiny Edelgard fans that have a hate boner for Dimitri and Rhea.

GW fans don't even like Claude. Theyre Edelgard fans that only like Claude as an accessory to their true fave. They're happy that Leicester is subservient to Adrestia and antagonistic towards Faerghus and the church.

Here are some other complaints i have as well:

He gets presented as a punk in his own cutscenes with the other leaders

He doesn't get a rousing speech in his own route. He gets a rousing speech in Scarlet Blaze when he betrays Edelgard and becomes an enemy that can get killed.

The game forces Cyril, the only other Almyran, to be killed by the combined forces of Leicester and Almyra. Cyril is a massive victim at the hands of both Leicester and Almyra and Claude wants to do right by Cyril and instead you have him give him the worst death imaginable by letting Claude, the leader of both factions, kill him.

He doesn't take care of 2 of his problems like the other 2 lords. Dimitri defeats the empire and kills Thales, Edelgard defeats both Rhea and Thales while Claude has only killed Rhea while the empire is still a threat.

The Golden Deers don't have route of their own, the second half of their story is dedicated to the black eagles which is a bigger insult to them than Verdant wind being Silver Snow but with the Golden Deers and Nemesis. They're supporting characters in their own route.

Edit:

I forgot to mention that there is a violent increase in racism towards Almyrans. Both how they're portrayed and how they're treated.

Especially from Judith who's hellbent on treating them like as if they're violent monsters cause of the actions of a few as if Fodlan doesn't have their own history of immoral crimes.

And not to mention it does a poor job focussing on Claude's goals in making amends between the Almyra and Fodlan.

They could've also could've taken the creative liberty to write an understandable reason for Almyra invading Fodlan ( like either the 10 elites from Leicester invading Almyra or the Agarthans stoking a fued between the 2 nations ) instead of portraying them as violent barbarians that wage war for the fun of it.

But yeah that's it for my long rant about Three Hopes.

I've you've made it this far i thank you for taking the time out of your day to hear me vent about my favorite character being mistreated.

I've also made a route where i fix the second half of the story to actually benefit Claude's character and not have him be a moronic accessory for Edelgard.

[sweet7simple]

Drift would NEVER (Spoilers)

So I already talked about this in another post:

But I am STILL ticked off at Rodimus for abandoning Ratchet:

(More Than Meets the Eye, Issues #17-22)

Oh noooo, fifty angry decepticoooonnns - Rodimus still ended up in a jail cell with everyone else EXCEPT Ratchet who was being tortured by Pharma.

Drift would have NEVER turned his back on Ratchet. And I am going to prove a point with more comic panels because that is how I do.

(More under the cut)

Let's start with More Than Meets the Eye Issues #4 & 5 where Ratchet and Drift go up against an artificial plague created by Pharma. This plague kills. Drift catches the plague. Drift is ACTIVELY DYING as Ratchet goes off to have his main boss fight with Pharma (Ratchet also has the plague and is dying, but not as much as Drift who started showing symptoms sooner):

Drift STILL drags his dying carcass after Ratchet and saves his ambulance from getting shot in the back:

They both live by the way.

Moving onto More Than Meets the Eye Issues #14 where Overlord escapes confinement on the Lost Light and starts rampaging. Ratchet and Drift instantly make the dream team:

They instantly fail:

(Drift's legs have been torn off.)

BUT THEY STILL FOUGHT TOGETHER BECAUSE THEY WOULD NEVER ABANDON EACH OTHER. As everyone knows because Drift: Empire of Stone is dedicated to Ratchet hunting Drift down and convincing him to come back to the Lost Light, but that isn't what this is about. This is about how Drift is goddamn RIDE OR DIE.

He isn't even necessarily just Ride or Die for Ratchet either.

Speaking of Drift: Empire of Stone, there was that time in Issue #1 where Drift got himself and Ratchet kidnapped by decepticons because he was going to the aid of another decepticon (the group of decepticons thought he was a turncoat/spy and were treating him like the enemy even though he was a goddamn decepticon):

"Well, Rodimus was running from fifty decepticons, not five!"

Well, shut up. Five or fifty, my main mech Drift would still say:

But Rodimus just up and left Ratchet behind.

I wonder if, wherever Drift was in the galaxy (this is during the time Drift was banished from the Lost Light, so he was not present for this shit show), his "my ambulance is in danger" senses were tingling. I wonder if he experienced this sudden and unexplainable dread when Ratchet was taken and tortured physically and psychologically.

I wonder if he felt a helpless rage at the fact that something was wrong and he couldn't do anything about it.

And when he and Ratchet spark merge for the first time down the line (you should have guessed by now that I support the Dratchet movement, please keep Rodimus's grubby paws off my Conjunx Endurae), when he sees these memories, I wonder if he cries. If he blames himself for not being there. If he wishes fervently that he had been at Ratchet's side the whole time for better or for worse.

And I hope he would have hit Rodimus for leaving Ratchet behind.

[isa-ghost]

*places down some money*

Phil headcannons please

*eats the coins whole*

Other qPhil headcanons

He means it 1000% when he says he'd burn the entire island to the ground for the kids. No building would be safe. Not even his own. All bets would be off. And if one of the other parents would do the same for their kid? He'd be right there with them.

He loves every egg, dead and alive alike. He has no clue what any of them think of him, and tbh he'd probably be overly humble or vaguely negative abt it bc he's just so shitty to himself when it comes to image related things, thinking they probably find him weird or smth. But he loves them all, and even if any of the eggs DO have a negative opinion of him, he'd still shed blood sweat and tears for them.

GUYS PLEASE THIS IS CANON BUT he is SO BAD at picking up on certain things if not explicitly told. If you have an issue with bird man you have to TELL HIM. He has a million other things on his mind and he has survival brain on by default which means several other things are taking up brainspace, he doesn't have the means to be looking for subtle signs someone isn't happy with him. FUCKING COMMUNICATE WITH HIM!!

Idk I just think Fit, Pac & Mike should convince him to get high with them. But I can't tell if I want to say he'd actually chill out for once & get a lil goofy or if he'd be the type that gets super anxious & hates every second he's stoned

Has a manga collection. It's not that big series-wise, he's a completionist so his collection is big bc he collects every volume of a series he's interested in. He has all of Bleach ofc, most of Chainsaw Man, probably 1-3 other series. He's preoccupied with other things usually so he hasn't read any of them in ages, but Chayanne has been going WILD reading them when he's not out and about

He gets sluttier when he's drunk. That confidence boost he gets when he's drunk enough goes places. Particularly when he's around Fit (Fit's a bad influence /pos)

Tbh? If his usual civil disobedience and the like don't work, I would not put it past him to follow Cellbit's example and just start killing Feds. I don't know how canon Phil's past is but if this is the man who helped create the Antarctic Empire or the man that leveled an entire country? Quesadilla Island's days are numbered and it will be Specifically to spite Cucurucho and any other Fed that's responsible for whatever Phil has an issue with. All it takes is taking his kids away again or hurting his friends :)

Fr tho if/when he finds out what they did to Jaiden or Baghera or anyone of the other islanders? He WILL be unleashing hell for them.

He's ready at all times to die for someone. The goal is to Not die, but if it comes to it, better him than them. And in classic hypocritical Phil fashion, he vehemently refuses to allow anyone to do the same for him. The survivor's guilt would be too much for him.

Outwardly, he processes grief and stress with humor. Because if he doesn't, he'll shut down emotionally and mentally. But don't think for a second that internally, he's a wreck. He's angry, he's in pain, he's stressed, he's conflicted, he's grieving. He just won't let anyone know he is. He doesn't like admitting it.

That said, GOD do hugs and random acts of kindness during tough/dark times get him. It's a hit straight to the heart. He'll get emotional before he can stop it or mask it. They mean more than anything, and they're the quickest way to make him realize just how much shit he's shouldering and bottling up.

Currently his greatest fear is the Federation finding out about or asking him questions related to Ender King. Normally he'd at least prepare how to answer such questions. In this case he has no clue what to say, which really stresses him out. And he knows fleeing the conversation wouldn't go well.

He doesn't typically do anything special with his hair but goddamn it looks good in a short braid. He only ever does smth with his hair for certain events, like Festa Junina. And that was mostly because Lullah insisted.

If the Federation one day declared every islander needed some kinda career for whatever weird reason, Phil's would be photography.

Don't listen to his complaining. He REALLY likes that there's so many birds around the house. Prefers them outside but he likes them around regardless.

[plasmas-arcade]

Do I Really Love You? - SFW - Chapter 2

Chapter 2/?: Records of a Soldier

Summary: Bucky struggles with being informed about more loss, and Sam consults with his sister over his relationship problems.

Themes/Tags/Warnings: winterfalcon, sambucky, angst, dimensional travel, pre-serum steve, artist steve, teen peter parker, captain america sam wilson

Word Count: 4.8k

Part 1 | Part 2

Peter is on patrol, and he spots Bucky walking on the street. He thwips his way over, perching on a light pole. "Hey." He waves down at Bucky.

Bucky jumps a little at the voice, looking up at Peter. “…Not in the mood, Spidey.” He then blinks a few times, tilting his head. “When did you get so short?”

Peter tilts his head. "I've always been smaller than you."He chuckles, hopping down to stand next to Bucky. "... I got my backpack nearby, you wanna get some lunch?" He can sense something is wrong, but he doesn't know what.

Bucky raises a brow at Peter. “…Sure. As long as you don’t invite Wade this time.” Bucky says with an annoyed tone.

Peter goes over to a nearby alley, dipping behind a dumpster and switching out of his spidey suit. The Peter that comes back out is much younger than the Peter that Bucky knows. This kid looks like he's barely out of high school. "Who's Wade?"

Bucky stares at Peter like he’s seeing a ghost, blinking. “Very funny, Spidey.” He looks uncomfortable. “I thought the whole point was that I didn’t know who you are.” He says, giving Peter a weird look.

Peter looks confused. "All of you know who I am. Kinda hard to keep it a secret after the war, and Tony's funeral..." He looks solemn for a moment. "... are you okay?"

Bucky’s jaw tightens at the reminder of Tony’s apparent death. “…Probably not, honestly.” Bucky admits, following Peter wherever the smaller man is leading him. “So who the hell are you then?”

Peter looks a little worried, taking them to his favorite bodega. He blinks at the question, but remembers Tony telling him about how Bucky had memory issues. "Peter." He chuckles a little, leading Bucky inside the little place. 

"I just got into Empire State University on a scholarship, uh... my best friends are Ned and MJ..."

Bucky orders himself a sandwich, patting his pockets for his wallet, looking relieved when he has cash on him. He opens the wallet, staring at the photo inside it. Him and Sam on their wedding day, smiling and holding each other like they’re in love.

Peter orders a sandwich as well, speaking in Italian with the shop owner. "Don't skimp out on the meats!" He laughs, handing over the cash for his food.

Bucky waves off Peter’s cash, paying for both of their sandwiches. He tears his eyes off the photo, shoving the wallet back in his pocket. He then takes his phone out while they wait. “…I don’t remember my password.” He admits to Peter. He then perks up. “Oh! I usually tell them to Natalia.” He looks at Peter.

Peter looks confused, then sad, rubbing his arm. "I can try and break into it? I think Clint has a lot of her stuff."

Bucky looks confused. “I can just ask her.” He chuckles, pocketing the phone. “She knows I forget shit like this all the time.”

Peter's face changes with realization, and slight horror at the fact he has to give this information. "Mr. Barnes, Miss Romanoff is... she's gone."

Bucky raises a brow. “You underestimate my ability to track someone down, Spidey. If she’s on a mission, I can get in contact.”

Peter pales. "... no, uh..." He wrings his hands. This was not good. Peter is pretty sure Bucky could snap him in half if he wanted, Spidey-strength be damned. 

"She's... gone gone. She sacrificed herself for the Soul Stone."

Bucky clenches his fist, looking pissed off. “Is everyone I love dead?” He attempts to say calmly. “Do I only have Steve left?” He looks desperate, the anger fading to sadness.

Peter looks sympathetic. "I... I didn't know you were that close to Miss Romanoff. Mr. Barton spent the most time with her." He sighs. "We lost a lot of people fighting Thanos. I mean, I got snapped up with you for five years, so we kinda died too? It’s... a lot."

Bucky rubs his temples, looking annoyed and stressed out. “I just… don’t get it.” He gets up, takes his sandwich, and leaves Peter alone in the bodega, rushing out and almost disappearing like he usually does when he doesn’t want to be followed.

Peter tries to follow Bucky for a minute, but fails to keep up with him. "Shit." He texts Sam what happened, figuring Bucky's husband should know. 

Sam turns up to the Bodega, starting to search around for Bucky. He gets stopped by a few people, and he lies that he's on official business and can't do photos or autographs. "Buck?" He calls, moving at a light jog.

Bucky doesn’t know where else to go, so he heads back to the tower, going back up to Tony’s floor, sitting on his couch with his head in his hands.

JARVIS flickers to life, barely. "Hello again, Mr. Barnes." The computer greets Bucky. "...Would you like to see some footage I saved of Mr. Stark?" It seems like the AI misses him too.

Bucky looks up at the ceiling, like the voice is coming from there. “…Yeah. Please.” He sits up a little more, looking at the screen on the wall.

JARVIS turns on the screen, and he shows a video of Tony in the lab. He looks older, more tired. 

"Is this thing on?" He chuckles. "Uh, well, if you're watching this, it's cause you miss me. Don't blame you, I'd miss me too." He grins at the camera. "... I know there's a good chance I won't survive. But I... I have to try and fix this. I let him get away once, to take people I cared about, and... I won't let that happen again." He goes quiet for a moment. 

"Take care of the kid for me. He's a mess, and he's brilliant, and also stupid. Make sure Pepper and Morgan get my money." He sighs. "I know I never say it. But I love you all."

The screen flickers to black.

Bucky tears up as he watches the video, making JARVIS play it over and over until he’s breaking down into tears. “Do you… have any more videos?” He hesitantly asks. “Any with me in them?”

JARVIS pulls up a video of Tony poking at Bucky's old arm. Steve is in the background, watching the two carefully. This must have been when Bucky was recently rescued. 

"Okay, popsicle 2.0, let's see what we got." Tony carefully starts to work. "Not hurtin' ya?" He checks, lifting his tools. 

The two slowly relax with each other through the video, Tony tossing out little jokes and jabs to try and get Bucky to loosen up. 

The video switches, and it's Bucky and Tony in the lab, but alone this time. 

"... I read the files Steve found from HYDRA." Tony says, crossing his arms. "... I'm sorry. I.. didn't understand before. I do now. It wasn't you."

Bucky watches the videos intently, not remembering any of this, much less what Tony could possibly be talking about. It seemed personal like Bucky had done something to Tony in particular. His eyes then widen when Tony and Bucky go on to talk about Tony’s parents. Bucky talking fondly about Howard, with what little he remembers. That’s when he realizes. “…I killed his parents?” Bucky asks softly.

"Yes. And Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers had a monumental disagreement about your status as a criminal." JARVIS clarifies. "But he changed his mind. Eventually."

Bucky hears the elevator doors ding, and he doesn’t even have to look up to see who it is. “If you’re here to propose again or whatever, just get out.”

Sam sighs, stepping inside anyways. "Dodger ate your ring. Gotta wait for him to shit it out, the vet said." He sits down, looking defeated. "... I don't know what to do." He admits, looking genuinely upset.

Bucky blinks at Sam like he’s stupid, letting out a small chuckle. “You dig through the shit. To get it. Like in that movie.” He says like a smartass.

Sam can't help but crack a little smile, chuckling. "Okay, smart-ass. But I meant... about what you're going through. I don't know how to help, and.. I'm sorry."

Bucky’s eyes widen at the apology. He looks up at Sam in shock. Because Sam fucking Wilson just apologized to him. “…I’m not going through anything.” He lies. “I just don’t get how this all happened.”

Sam quirks a brow. "Yeah, and I'm not Sam Wilson." He retorts. "You don't remember anything, and I know that's hella stressful. You have a support system, but you just... don't remember us." He sighs.

Bucky shakes his head. “I remember you.” He says firmly. “I know who you are. You’re Sam Wilson. Pain in my ass. Falcon. Your stupid pet bird shit on Clint’s head the other week.”

Sam snorts. "Sounds like Redwing. Pretty sure he's gotten over you stealing all my attention. But only because you give him treats."

Bucky smiles a little at that. “Steve trusts you. So I do too. Even if… I don’t get how we got here.”

Sam relaxes a bit. "I can live with that. You don't have to stay with me tonight, Steve said his place is open to you. We also have a guest room at our place, whatever you want." This Sam is way more nice and considerate, at least to Bucky's face.

Bucky raises a brow, not used to these kind of niceties. “…I think I’ll stay with Steve.”

Sam looks a little disappointed, but nods. "Okay, I can bring you some of your clothes, or you can pack some yourself. I'm sure Redwing would want to see you, and Alpine."

Bucky nods, “I’ll take Alpine with me.” He says firmly. He then looks down at his clothes, before looking up at Sam. “…I didn’t pick these out, did I?”

Sam snorts, starting to lead the way out. "You let my sister help you, thank god. I'm just happy you accepted fashion advice."

Bucky blinks, “I didn’t even know you had a sister.” Bucky takes one last look at Tony’s home, before following Sam out.

Sam takes Bucky to their apartment, and the place is... nice. 

Alpine comes bounding up, jumping into Bucky's arms. She yowls at him for being gone so long!

Bucky pets her, giving her a kiss on the head. “I know, Al. You miss me.” He chuckles. 

Bucky looks around the apartment, taking in how it looks lived in. He watches Redwing making a nest on the couch, not realizing the clothes the bird is using are his.

Alpine purrs, snuggling into Bucky's arms. She bites at his metal arm playfully, warning him not to stop the snuggles!

There are pictures of Sam and Bucky getting married on the walls, pictures of Bucky with Sam in his Captain America suit, photos of them with tiny Steve, and with who seem to be Sam's family. 

Sam gives Redwing some scratches under his chin. "Do you remember which drawers are yours?" Sam asks, looking a little hopeful.

Bucky looks around at the photos, reaching to take one off the table beside the couch. It’s a picture of him, Sam, and Morgan making sandcastles on the beach, Bucky looking so happy. He shows the picture to Sam. “Morgan.” He says simply. “JARVIS told me.”

He then blinks at the question, shaking his head. “I don’t even recognize this place.”

Sam nods, smiling fondly at the photo. "We're Uncle Buck and Uncle Sam." He chuckles. "How ironic is that? Uncle Sam." He shakes his head. 

He motions for Bucky to follow him to the bedroom. "Top two are yours. And the left side of the closet."

Bucky follows Sam down the hall, freezing in place at the sight of a certain photo. He takes it off the wall, looking confused. He takes the photo into the bedroom, showing it to Sam. “Hey, who is this?” He shows the picture of him and Wanda together, both out of uniform. They had become sorta friends after she attended their wedding. He doesn’t recognize her at all, despite knowing who Wanda is. She just looks so different. White. She looks white. 

He then puts the picture down, opening his clothing drawers and going through, picking out something simple for himself, packing for Steve’s.

Sam looks at the photo, picking it up once Bucky puts it down. "Oh, that's Wanda." He smiles a little. "She really loved you. You understood her, I think." He looks sad, and noticeably, he's talking about her in past tense.

Bucky’s face falls again. “Wanda is dead?” He blinks at the photo. “I don’t remember her looking quite like that.” He says, digging through the closet, pulling out a jacket with fuzzy lining to go over his t-shirt.

Sam nods, sitting down. He's emotionally drained, having had to deliver news of death over and over. "She... killed herself. She went against Strange, he tried explaining it all to me but it's magic stuff I don't quite get." 

Alpine takes the opportunity to climb into Bucky's jacket, purring happily as she uses it as a baby pouch.

Bucky frowns. “It’s… okay. Sorry.” He mumbles, before looking down at Alpine, kissing her head. “I remember you, little baby.” He chuckles. 

He goes to hang the picture back up, letting out a swear when he knocks a different picture off the wall, the frame shattering. “Fuck.” He mumbles, crouching down to try and pick the photo out of the shards so it doesn’t get ruined. He smiles a little at the picture of him and T’Challa, Bucky laughing as T’Challa’s fancy expensive pants are chewed on by a goat. He sets the picture to the side, noticing there was something under it. Picking it out, he sees a note, opening it and reading the start… the “Dear James Barnes” written in T’Challa’s fancy handwriting.

Alpine yawns, blinking happily at Bucky. He better remember her!! 

Sam goes to get a broom for the glass. "It’s okay! We can get a new frame." 

"Dear James Barnes,

I hope you are still finding peace. I am sorry I cannot be there to see you thrive. We worked so hard together to break that curse and make you a free man. I am honored to have been your friend. 

Do not mourn me for long. You have much life to live, and people to love. Spending my last days with you and Shuri was the greatest gift you gave me, even if you did not know it.

Do not stop fighting for your place in this world. You will do great things, and when we see each other again, I will remind you how proud I am of you.

Take care of yourself. For me.

T'Challa."

Bucky reads the letter over and over, staring at it like it’s the last piece of hope he ever had to cling to. He doesn’t even notice when he started crying, holding the paper away when a tear drips down onto it. He reaches up to wipe his cheeks, letting out a little sniffle. At least one thing hadn’t changed. T’Challa was still the same old fancy sap, filling Bucky with hope for his own future, making the ex-assassin feel loved when he was at his lowest. 

Bucky folds the letter back up, putting it and the photo on the counter, a soft smile on his face as he uses the kitchen towel to wipe his tears. 

“Did you ever talk to him? T’Challa.” He elaborates right after his question.

Sam comes back in quietly, sweeping up the glass. He offers Bucky some tissues, nodding. "I did." He smiles a little. "He told me about your recovery, with your permission. Helped me feel confident in myself as people started hating me for being a black Cap." He smiles fondly at the picture. "I wasn't as close to him as you were. And I know you miss him."

Bucky blows his nose loudly, letting out a chuckle and tossing the tissue away. “He would do that. He told me he looks up to you, y’know.” Bucky says. He pats himself over, before frowning, opening the drawer next to their fridge, seemingly searching for something. He frowns harder when he doesn’t find it. “That’s not funny, Sam. I told you to stop hiding my cigs.” He finds a lighter, but no cigarettes. Since when did Bucky smoke?

Sam raises his brows. "I thought you quit? Like, a long time ago." He chuckles. "We don't have any in the house, but we can get some. Be careful around Steve though, he's got his asthma back." 

Sam gets a text, and he peeks at the message. "Shit. I forgot Toussaint is coming to stay with us next week." Who the hell is that?

Bucky looks at Sam like he’s stupid. “I’ve always smoked. You constantly tell me how shit it is.” He points out, before shaking it off. “Whatever. I’ll go pick up a pack later.” 

He puts the lighter back in the drawer, before tilting his head. “Who’s Toussaint?” He asks, opening the fridge and getting himself some water.

Sam leans on the counter. "Uh, your god son?" He chuckles. "T'Challa's boy. He's seven now. He adores you."

Bucky freezes mid-sip, looking at Sam. “He has a son?”

Sam nods. "Mhm, with Nakia. He was raised in Haiti with her, but now he is in Wakanda, and he comes to stay with us and see his Papa Buck."

Bucky smiles a little at that, “He left a legacy.” He says, chuckling. “That kid's gonna have a lot to live up to.” He sets his empty glass in the sink, before moving back to the bedroom to finish packing his bag. “…How long have we been… married?” He says, disliking referring to it like that.

"Oh, definitely. His Wakandan name is T'Challa, but he goes by his other name, at least for now. He's a royal pain in my ass." He snickers. 

Sam sits on the bed as Bucky packs. "... two years. Steve officiated. T'Challa was your best man."

Bucky moves to sit down on the bed next to Sam once his bag is packed, letting out a breath. “So… what do we do? It seems like all the threats are over. Where’s the Avengers? Who fights those crazy aliens that come to try to kill us? Who’s after HYDRA?”

Sam chuckles. "Well, I haven't seen any aliens for a while, luckily. We fought a group that got labeled terrorists, and now... there's some threats coming from the inside." He looks serious, clenching his fists a little. "I don't really know who to trust right now. Except you."

“You mean the government threats against mutants? Sam, that’s been going on for years now.” He then chuckles. “I think I like this new Sam. Against the government.”

Sam rolls his eyes. "Don't tell my PR team that. As far as everybody knows, I'm the next Golden Boy."

Bucky rolls his eyes right in return , flopping down onto his back. “Yeah, like Steve was such an angel. He was the biggest thorn in our government’s side. You need to do the exact same.”

Sam smirks, laying down next to Bucky. "That's what he keeps telling me. I just don't want them to try and give the shield to Walker again, or somebody like him." He huffs. "That kid can take it from me out of my cold, dead hands."

“Then let him.” Bucky says firmly. “Show them you aren’t someone to be fucked with. Steve gave up that shield for his best friend, but you need to give it up for what you believe in. You’re fucking Sam Wilson. I don’t think a shield makes you any less of a force to be reconned with.”

Sam smiles at the encouragement, looking at Bucky with love in his eyes. "... thanks, Buck." He says softly. "How do you always know what to say? Do you have a speech prepared all the time?"

Bucky shrugs, “I had to do it for Stevie too.” He meets Sam’s eyes, before looking away shyly, not used to that sort of affection put towards him. He sits up, grabbing his bag. “I’m sure he’s waiting for me. You gotta show me where he lives now.”

Sam nods, getting up to lead the way. "He's a sentimental fucker. He bought the apartment you two had in the 40s."

Bucky laughs softly at that, “Of course he did.” Bucky knows where he’s going at that, grabbing a beer before he heads out.

Sam follows, wanting to make sure Bucky makes it there okay. He smiles when some teens come up to him wanting pictures. "Okay, gotta make sure I look good!" He chuckles, getting in the photo with them. He pats their backs, looking a lot like how Steve did when he talked with young fans.

Bucky watches with a soft look on his face, wondering if this is really so awful. Bucky moves out of the way so he doesn’t end up in the photos, looking amused. “They really love you, huh?”

Sam nods, waving to the kids as they leave. "Yeah. It's kinda crazy, being recognized all the time." He walks with Bucky. "But I know it means a lot to these kids. Steve is great, but... people relate to me. I don't have any super-serum or anything."

Bucky nods at that, “I think you were a great choice, honestly.” He looks at Sam. “…Did I get taller?” He finally asks, not used to being at eye level with the other man.

Sam laughs a little. "I think you've always been this tall? Maybe you're putting lifts in your shoes." He nudges Bucky gently.

Bucky frowns, checking his boots. “Or maybe you just got shorter.” He teases. 

Bucky knocks lightly on Steve’s door, looking around at the familiar building.

Steve opens up, smiling when he sees Bucky. "Hi!" He invites him in, cooing at Alpine. "Hey little lady!" 

Dodger comes bounding up, panting and wagging his tail happily. 

"He shit out the ring yet?" Sam asks, patting Dodger. 

"Nope. But I'm keeping an eye out for it." Steve chuckles.

Bucky chuckles, bending down to give the puppy some good scratches behind his ear. “No rush. I ain’t putting that thing back on.” He says with a huff.

Sam, who had thought they were making progress, looks hurt by that. "... I better head home. Gotta feed Redwing." He heads towards the door. 

Steve looks at Sam sympathetically. "Okay. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on Buck." He teases.

Bucky chuckles, wrapping his arms around Steve tightly. “You will, huh?” He then moves to play with Dodger, tossing a ball for him.

Steve smiles at the hug. "Mhm." He rubs Sam's arm. "I got him. Go get some rest. I'll call if something happens, okay?" 

Sam looks worried, but nods. "... okay. Thanks, Steve."

Bucky takes one last look at Sam before he leaves, something akin to pain and guilt in his eyes.

Sam leaves, his chest heavy with hurt. He snuggles with Redwing at home, feeling like the apartment is empty without Bucky. 

There's a firm knock on Sam's door, someone arriving to fill the silence for him.

Sam gets up, rubbing his face and opening the door. "Hello?" 

Sarah is at the door, her hand on her hip. "I heard my big brother is going through some shit." She holds up and lightly shakes a small case of beers, "Can't have that, can we?" 

Sam looks relieved that it's Sarah, and he lets her in. "Where'd you hear that?" He chuckles softly, looking emotionally tired. He plops back down on the couch, letting out a long breath. 

Sarah chuckles, offering Sam one of the beers, cracking it open for him. "Steve texted me. Told me that you and Bucky are having some relationship issues." 

Sam takes one of the beers. "Yeah, kinda. He... doesn't remember me. Or at least he doesn't remember marrying me, or... that he loves me." He starts to tear up, the reality of that catching up with him. 

Sarah listens to Sam intently, sitting next to him and rubbing her brother’s knee. “That’s gotta feel awful.” She invites him to share how he feels. 

Sam drinks some of his beer, then sets it aside, putting his face in his hands. He starts to finally cry, his shoulders shaking. "Its like he can't stand me... "

Sarah softens, wrapping an arm around her brother and gently rubbing his shoulder. "But you know he loves you. Deep down. Even if he can't remember it. How else are you feeling?" She lets him lean on her. 

Sam wipes his face a little, breathing hard as he cries. "I feel like... like I lost him, like he's right here but... he isn’t. And it hurts so much." 

Sarah nods, holding Sam close. “I know. Is there anything I can do?” 

Sam leans into her arms, shaking his head a little. "I think I just have to wait. And I hate waiting." He chuckles a little, wiping the tears from his cheeks. 

Sarah offers him a tissue. “I think you needed a good cry.”

Sam nods in agreement, finally relaxing his body. "I just love him so damn much." 

Sarah smiles a little. “I know you do, and it’s proof with how much this hurts you.”

Steve starts fixing him and Bucky some dinner, sneakily giving Alpine a bite of the meat. "Don't tell your daddy!" He giggles.

Bucky smiles at Steve, padding into the kitchen after him. "I know it's not much, but... I remember some things. I'm sorry that I don't remember all of you."

Steve smiles softly. "It’s okay. I know this isn't easy for you." He places a small hand on Bucky's arm. "You wanna talk about what you do remember?"

Bucky sighs, leaning into the touch. "I remember being in Tony's lab. And... something went wrong. I hit my head." He rubs his temple. "We were testing something out, but I forgot what."

Steve furrows his brows. "Tony has been gone for a little while now... I don't know what you would have been doing with him."

Bucky taste tests the sauce Steve is working on, "Not spicy enough." He says. "I don't remember all these people dying. I just don't."

Steve huffs. "I can't make it too spicy, my stomach can't handle it!" He then looks sympathetic. "... it's been really hard, losing so many. I don't really understand why it just... keeps happening."

Bucky chuckles. “I forgot. We usually use a lot.” He then rubs Steve’s back. “It hurts. A lot. It’s like a story with shitty writers.” He chuckles.

Steve leans against Bucky, nodding a little. "It really is." He stirs his sauce slowly. "I'm working on a portrait of 'Tasha. Maybe you can take a look at it for me, see how I'm doing."

Bucky looks up at Steve with a warm smile. "I think I'd like that." He then wrings his flesh wrist with his metal one. "Sam seems upset with everything I say."

Steve shakes his head. "He just loves you, so much. I think he just feels sad that you don't remember him all that much."

Bucky frowns. “I do remember him. I just… don’t remember this.”

Steve nods. "I think he just has to process that. You can't help it."

Bucky sighs, “What if I never remember? Or I never go back to what I know?”

Steve rubs Bucky's back. "Then we'll figure it out. He wouldn't force you to do anything, Sam isn't like that."

Bucky looks down at Steve, nodding. “I know. Do you… Can you tell me what we were like together?”

Steve nods. He talks about how they hated each other at first, never getting along. He talks about how much it stressed him out, so he kept forcing them to go on missions together. He tells Bucky about how Sam needed Bucky to help him be Cap, and Bucky needed Sam to be... Bucky. 

"Once he introduced you to his family, you were done for." He chuckles.

Bucky chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remember the first part. I don’t remember meeting his family.”

Steve softens. "Maybe you can meet them again. I'm sure they'd love to see you."

Bucky nods. “You think they’d understand… this?”

Steve serves them both the food he made, sitting down. "I think they would love you no matter what. Just like Sam, and me."

Bucky looks a little guilty, and he holds back the next words that he wants to say. He didn’t want to make Steve feel bad, no matter if this didn’t really feel like his Steve. 

Bucky presses himself against the cold mattress after getting himself ready for bed, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, counting every car that passes, trying to take his mind off his thoughts about the strange world. 

[nomimits7]

Limerence: The Iron Pact | 1

The obsession begins

Title: Limerence: The Iron Pact

Pairing: Taehyung x OT6

Warnings: Manipulation. Gaslighting. Violence. There is implied incest, BUT it's not because they lied. Betrayal. and trust issues. If I left out any major tags please let me know. I will add more later.

Summary:

In a kingdom where power is everything, Taehyung is a mercenary with a dark past and a dangerous secret—one he doesn’t even know exists. Six powerful figures, each with their own motives, see him as the key to their ambitions. A reluctant prince, a tormented warlord, a prophetic seer, a cunning vizier, a rival claimant, and a high priest—all are willing to do whatever it takes to win his loyalty.

But Taehyung is no pawn. His bloodline is tied to a lost empire, and the untapped power within him could reshape the future. As the six men vie for his trust, they’ll soon discover that controlling him may be more difficult than they thought... and the price of failure is deadly.

Rain was a welcome sight in the land of the Hittites. The drought had brought this once-feared empire to the brink of collapse. Yes, the rain was a blessing, even if it meant that no work could be done outside. The storms here were merciless, unforgiving to those who dared challenge their fury. All but one.

Taehyung never rested. Not even when the sky wept. He had to remain vigilant, his body and mind honed for the moment he would be called—or when he would need to disappear. He did not belong to the empire. No, he belonged to the land itself.

Empires craved warriors like him, and kings paid handsomely for his skill, but he never stayed. He refused to be shackled by empty promises and fleeting desires.

Even in the storm, his movements were precise—silent, fluid, unyielding. Death did not wait for the skies to clear, and neither did he. His blade sliced through the rain, the steel an extension of his arm. He moved like a phantom, his steps weightless as he spun, crouched, and struck at invisible foes. His dance of steel was hypnotic to those who watched.

And there were always those who watched.

Some with longing, desperate to claim him, to bind him in gold and call him theirs. Others with envy, wishing they could move as effortlessly as he did.

Then there was the general.

Taehyung had only met General Min once—the day he was contracted to serve the crown. The man was a warlord, a strategist, a force that made even Taehyung hesitate. His presence was a quiet storm, his eyes cold calculations behind a mask of discipline.

General Min did not tolerate weakness. The barracks were not for the faint of heart; only the strongest emerged as warriors of the empire. But even the general had his limits. He would not allow his men to train in the rain, to risk illness or injury that could weaken his forces.

And yet, here Taehyung was.

Perhaps that was why the general's gaze was locked onto him now, watching as he moved through the downpour. There was no mistaking the tension in his stance, the silent disapproval burning in his eyes.

Taehyung exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He already knew.

He was in trouble.

___________

The rain had not stopped.

Taehyung could hear the heavy droplets drumming against the stone walls of the training grounds as he sheathed his sword. He did not turn immediately when he sensed another's presence behind him—he already knew who it was. The silence was its own kind of warning.

Then, finally, a voice.

"You do not take orders well, do you?"

General Min's tone was calm, but the weight behind his words was impossible to ignore.

Taehyung straightened, slowly turning to face him. Even through the curtain of rain, the general’s expression was unreadable—his dark eyes locked onto Taehyung with the same sharp intensity as a drawn blade.

"I take orders when they make sense," Taehyung replied smoothly, though he knew the response would not please the man before him.

A flicker of something—irritation? Amusement?—crossed General Min’s face, gone before Taehyung could place it.

"And does defying me in the rain make sense to you?"

Taehyung only smirked. “I suppose not. But it does seem to piss you off well enough.”

General Min sneered. He was holding back—why, Taehyung didn’t know. A narrow, dimly lit hallway wasn’t exactly ideal for a sparring match, but he wouldn’t mind testing the general’s skill. The man had a reputation, after all.

"The crown contracted you for a reason. Don’t make me end your pathetic existence before your purpose has been met."

Taehyung chuckled. “If my existence is so pathetic, why can none of your so-called ‘best’ stand against me for more than five minutes? I may be from this land, but I do not answer to you.” He tilted his head slightly, watching for a reaction. “I know how men like you work. You desire, and you take, without ever thinking about the consequences you leave behind.”

A flicker of something crossed General Min’s face—irritation? Amusement? It vanished too quickly to tell.

Most men withered under his command. He had broken warlords and shattered seasoned warriors with a single order. But Taehyung—Taehyung did not yield.

And that infuriated him.

But it also intrigued him.

_________

The hall was packed with nobles and warriors from every corner of the kingdom. Taehyung, the so-called honored guest, kept to the shadows. He had been to too many of these.

They never ended well.

Someone always tried to lure him into their cause, whispering of gold and glory. Others sought to seduce him, desperate for the prestige of bedding a warrior of his caliber.

This was no different.

Taehyung wasn’t surprised when a man approached him—only that it was the prince and not the King himself.

"The whispers must be altered. They forgot to mention how pleasing you are to the eye."

Taehyung’s expression remained unreadable . "Your Highness, your flattery is unnecessary. I have already agreed to settle your father’s dispute. But I do not see the King. I was hoping to discuss the duration of my stay."

He bowed, his gaze flickering to the figure standing just behind the prince. Dressed in simpler, more subdued clothing, the man was watching him intently.

A bad feeling settled in Taehyung’s gut.

Prince Seokjin smiled easily, his voice smooth as silk.

"Forgive me for being the one to tell you, but my father was feeling rather… tired from his hunt. He has requested that I entertain you tonight while he finds his own entertainment elsewhere."

The man behind him made a sound—a soft, restrained grunt, as if barely holding back laughter. It did its job. Seokjin exhaled as if suddenly remembering something.

"Ah, I nearly forgot to introduce you. This is my brother, Namjoon."

Taehyung stilled.

Brother?

The King had only one legitimate son—Prince Seokjin. The others had vanished, removed from the line of succession.

So how had this one survived?

A test, then.

"Excuse my older brother’s lack of awareness," Namjoon said smoothly. His voice was rich, composed. " I am an illegitimate son of the crown. My mother was one of our King’s favored subjects, which made him… tolerant of me. I proved myself useful, and so I was allowed to live."

He smiled a slow, knowing smile. “At least, for now.”

Taehyung didn’t miss the implication. For now.

And just like that, the seed was planted.

“My father sure has a way of discarding his tools once they have served their purpose. Especially ones who are so easy to lose to another, better handler. Perhaps someone who doesn’t even look like a treat.”

Taehyung studied the two brothers before him, their words rolling off him like rain against armor. Their insistence that he was merely a tool, that the King would discard him when he was no longer useful, was nothing he hadn’t heard before.

"Focus. Focus. It's all nonsense." He had heard these words from his own lips, when he fought for kings and warlords alike—too many times to count. But something in the way they said it now… It felt different. Something about the weight of their words… it was unsettling.

"Your highness," he said with a smirk, swirling the untouched wine in his goblet. "I know better than to listen to those who speak in riddles. If you have something useful to say, say it plainly."

Seokjin chuckled, but there was something knowing in his eyes. "We only wish to warn you."

"Warn me? About what?"

Namjoon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to something softer, more dangerous. "That you are not the first warrior our father has praised." He glanced around the room, lowering his voice to a whisper. "And yet, do you see any of them here tonight?"

A flicker of annoyance passed through Taehyung’s features, but he refused to let their words take root. I’ve heard this before…

He downed his wine in one go, setting the cup aside with an air of finality.

"I have fought for kings and warlords alike," he said. "And I am still here."

Seokjin hummed. "For now."

T he words hung in the air between them. Taehyung scoffed, pushing off the wall. "If you’ll excuse me, your highnesses, I have had enough of politics for one night."

He turned on his heel, leaving the brothers behind.

But even as he walked through the grand hall, the distant sound of music and laughter fading behind him, their words lingered.

The rain had not let up.

By the time Taehyung reached the training grounds, the steady downpour had driven nearly everyone inside. The torches flickered against the wind, the scent of wet earth filling the air.

Good. He needed the silence.

Removing his cloak, he unsheathed his blade, rolling his shoulders before falling into practiced movements. The rhythmic swing of his sword, the sharp sound of steel slicing through the air—this was where his mind found peace.

And yet, peace did not come so easily tonight.

"You are not the first."

"Do you see any of them here tonight?"

With a frustrated breath, Taehyung swung harder, faster—only stopping when he caught movement in his periphery. He turned, blade still in hand.

He stopped, not seeing anyone. He chalked it up to a play in the light. Perhaps he had had enough training for one day. He was tired and needed to rest. The barracks were nearly silent at this hour, save for the sound of rain against the wooden beams. Taehyung sat on the edge of a training platform, sharpening his blade. The steady motion of the whetstone against steel was soothing, grounding. The words of the prince and his bastard brother were nothing but noise—easily discarded.

"The King discards those who outlive their usefulness."

"You are just another tool in his collection."

Their warnings had no weight. Taehyung was no fool; he had worked under kings, warlords, and self-proclaimed gods. He knew how the game was played. But something about their insistence lingered in the back of his mind, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Was I really just a tool? A mercenary bought and paid for until I was no longer needed?

A sudden shift in the air made him still. Someone was near.

“I wouldn’t put too much faith in the King’s favor, if I were you.”

The voice was quiet, lilting, almost amused. Taehyung didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Vizier Hoseok.

Taehyung sighed, continuing his work. “You too?”

A soft chuckle. “Not at all. I’m merely passing on wisdom.” The vizier stepped into view, dressed in his signature robes, hands folded neatly behind his back. “You remind me of someone, you know.”

Taehyung said nothing, but his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened.

“A warrior. Fearless, skilled beyond compare. The King adored him—promised him riches, land, a future.” Hoseok tilted his head slightly. “I’m sure you can imagine how that ended.”

Taehyung set the whetstone down . “What happened?”

Hoseok’s lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “He was too good. Too strong. The King began to wonder... what would happen if his precious mercenary decided he wanted something more?” He exhaled as if in pity. “A poisoned cup, an unfortunate accident on the battlefield—who can say? He disappeared before anyone could ask too many questions.”

Taehyung knew a half-truth when he heard one. “You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want,” Hoseok said easily, already turning to leave. “But I wonder… when your contract is fulfilled, will the King let you walk away?”

He paused at the threshold. “Or will you disappear, just like the others?”

The silence left behind was deafening.

For the first time, Taehyung wasn’t sure if he could brush this off so easily.

________

Taehyung had a horrible night. His dreams were plagued by scenes of betrayal that felt all too familiar to him. He could still see his parents' eyes when they realized their manipulation of their precious son had gone too far. The day they lost their heir because of their own greed for power.

Perhaps he should see someone to help him sleep or to get rid of these dreams that haunted him in the silence of the night. It didn’t help that the whispers had gotten worse. The servants had been talking about how they wondered if Taehyung would be like the past mercenaries that mysteriously disappeared or if he was special and not threatening enough for the King to keep him around.

The two brothers had approached him again, stating that they felt he was far too valuable to lose and that if he gave them the word, they could help keep him alive. In their words, “We have survived so far, we could help you too.”

He, obviously, denied them. He had no interest in betraying the contract he had. That would 

lead to certain death for him, and no one else would ever trust him again. But the whispers didn’t stop.

“Taehyung! Focus, we can’t lose the king's new favorite! Where are those moves you so proudly displayed in the rain a few days ago? Again!”

General Min surely woke up on the wrong side of his bed. He was ruthless today in their training. He had changed Taehyung's sparring partner three times already, not giving the latter any breaks in between.

“Hey man, you okay? You have to focus, the King is watching, and he only keeps those who can be controlled. At this moment, you look like a bad investment.”

The kid was nice, strong, and decent in sparring, but he was also kind of annoying. That was enough to get Taehyung going, and he did not hold back against the poor kid. Hit after hit, he backed the poor boy into a corner. If they were using real weapons, he would long be dead. He was ripped away by a furious-looking General, only then did he come back to himself and see the poor boy, who could not be any older than nineteen, in a heap on the floor.

“Stay in line. Take a walk and meet me in my office. Now!”

As he left the courtyard, he didn’t even dare to look back at the mess he left behind. He knew the King had watched his little outburst and he just hoped he didn’t fuck up his own contract. The whispers were getting to him. He needed to explain himself to the King. He had to look submissive in a way to save his own ass.

“I wish to have an audience with the king.”

“That would not be possible at this stage. His Majesty is not available anytime soon.”

“Well, when will he be available? I have much to discuss with him.”

“That I do not know. Perhaps talking to the High Priest or even the prince would help? Even the Seer would be a good option.”

“Why would they be options over the King? I don’t understand why he doesn’t even have five minutes to talk. He paid for me, and yet he has yet to talk to me.”

Just then, the General walked in and dismissed the other occupants of the room. Hoseok soon followed and silently made his way to the corner of the room. Almost as if he wanted to be but a shadow to the impending conversation .

“What the hell is wrong with you? You come in here and show off your amazing techniques, and then you go out and nearly kill one of my men? What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Now, Yoongi, you know we were warned about this.”

“I honestly do not care, Hoseok, so shut the hell up. He clearly has no control over himself. He is reckless and a ticking time bomb that could explode at any moment and take all of us with him.”

The general, or Yoongi, was nearly out of breath by the time he stopped talking. For the first time since he stepped foot in this kingdom, Taehyung saw emotions other than disappointment on the general's face. It was quietly comforting to know the man was capable of feelings.

“I apologize for my behavior, and I would apologize personally to the King as well, but he has yet to hold an audience with me. My mind has been plagued by whispers, and I have not been sleeping well.”

Hoseok nearly scoffed at Taehyung's words.

“Forget about an audience. The King will probably not see you. You are a tool, not one of his subjects. Not even the general gets to speak to the King. He only speaks to the prince, like most of us do. You can trust Seokjin and Namjoon. They are good people.”

Yeah, Taehyung didn’t know if he could believe that.

________

The six of them gathered in the dimly lit chamber, far from the prying eyes of the kingdom. The air was thick with the weight of ambition, each of them craving something different but equally powerful. Around a circular table, they sat in silence, all waiting for one to speak first.

Seokjin and Namjoon sat side by side, their fingers subtly brushing beneath the table in a quiet show of unity. They were more than just allies in this scheme—lovers, bound not by blood, but by their shared ambition and devotion to each other. Together, they knew they could accomplish anything. Their bond was their strength.

Hoseok was the first to break the silence, his voice low and steady, filled with the experience of a man who had orchestrated more than his share of schemes. “We all know what’s at stake here. Taehyung is no fool, and he will not be manipulated easily. We need to earn his trust, little by little, if we are to succeed.”

Yoongi, who had been pacing the room, stopped abruptly and turned to face Hoseok. His sharp gaze flickered to the others as he spoke, the tension in his voice palpable. “ I’m not here just to earn his trust. I need him under my control. His strength, his raw power—it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. I can’t let that slip away.”

Jimin, who had been quiet up until now, spoke with a soft yet ominous tone. “ You’re right. His potential is limitless. The prophecies speak of him as a key to unlocking power beyond any of us. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is destined for greatness. We will guide him, make him believe that fate has chosen him for something extraordinary.”

Namjoon’s voice interrupted, calm but with an underlying certainty. “We need to show him that he can have everything. That’s how we get him to trust us. Power, a kingdom at his side. I can offer him that. I can show him that he belongs with me, that we can take what’s ours together.”

Jungkook, always the one to see things from a different perspective, spoke last. “And once he’s by our side, we will need to give him something greater. The gods are watching us, and they demand more than power. We will make him divine. He will become more than just a man. He will be worshipped. ”

The room fell silent for a moment as each of them thought about the future they would build with Taehyung at its center.

Seokjin’s voice cut through the stillness, soft but unwavering. “We all want him, in our own way. But we need him to want us in return. We need him to trust us, to choose us. Only then will we truly have him as our protector, our consort, the one who can help us secure everything.”

Namjoon nodded in agreement, his gaze steady on Seokjin. “ We will show him that we are the only ones who truly care for him. We will make sure he never feels abandoned. Together, we’ll ensure that he sees us as his path to everything he could ever want.”

Hoseok smiled slyly from his corner of the room. “And I will make sure that every whisper he hears, every rumor that reaches him, brings him closer to us. No one will be able to sway him away from our side. Not when I’m in control of the story.”

They shared a look, their individual desires intertwined in a web of manipulation, each of them knowing they would stop at nothing to gain Taehyung’s loyalty.

Seokjin leaned in slightly toward Namjoon, their hands brushing once more. “He’ll be ours. Together.”

Namjoon met his gaze, their bond unbreakable. “Together. Always.”

With those final words, the pact was made. The six of them would stop at nothing to make Taehyung theirs. Each of them would use their own talents to mold him, to manipulate him until he was firmly in their grasp.

As they all sat around the table, strategizing, Hoseok’s gaze flickered over to Namjoon and Seokjin. He knew more than anyone about Taehyung’s past, and that made him dangerous in ways they still didn’t fully understand.

“ We know Taehyung’s strength is unmatched,” Hoseok began, his voice low, “but it’s more than just his skills with a blade. His blood runs deeper than he realizes. The King may think he’s simply a mercenary, but there’s more to him. His parents... they tried to mold him into a weapon, one that could bring entire empires to their knees. But he ran from them before they could finish what they started.”

Jimin nodded, his eyes flickering with a strange knowing. “He may not remember it, but the mark he bears on his skin, the power that blooms in his veins when he fights—those are the remnants of his bloodline. We can unlock that power and make him believe it’s his destiny. But only if he trusts us.”

Seokjin, who had been silent for the longest, leaned forward, eyes narrowing with focus. “He doesn’t know what he is. But we will show him. He will be the key to my rule. To all of our ambitions.”

Namjoon, his tone calm yet calculated, added, “Once we have him, once he believes in us, his hidden potential will be ours to wield. His bloodline, his abilities—they’re a path to everything we’ve ever dreamed of. Power. Control. A kingdom. All of it.”

Hoseok glanced at Jimin and then back at the group, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “ We’ll make him want us. We’ll make him believe he needs us. Then, we unlock the potential buried deep within him. He won’t even know what hit him.”

The others nodded in agreement, each of them fully aware of the power they could wield with Taehyung at their side. They were one step closer to making him theirs.

Chapter 2

[blackknight-100]

So remember the Medusa in MB AU we were discussing in the comments of the Zombie AU post the other day? @chahaa-piun-ja and @friend-shaped-but

I have been thinking about it a lot, and now I have a detailed outline for it (this is only part 1):

1. Perseus, in order to free his mother, pursues the Gorgon Medusa, helped along by Athena and Hermes.

2. Medusa learns about it beforehand, and realizing it would be almost impossible to defeat a demigod son of Zeus who is backed by two Olympians, does the sensible thing and bolts. Her sisters, who are immortal, go to Phorkys to hide.

3. Unfortunately for her, one of the gods helping Perseus is Hermes, god of roads and travellers, so all types of accidents keep happening her on the way.

4. In the end, she makes for the sea where hopefully Poseidon would look the other way, climbs into the cargo hold of the first ship she lays her eyes on (because she can't really talk to people) and books it.

5. But an Olympian's ill-will is hard to shake off, so even though Hermes is no longer actively trying to hinder her, she ends up far from Greece and in India, turns a bunch of people into stone when she disembarks, and then horrified with herself, disappears.

6. Medusa wanders about for a bit, veiling her face* and going out only at night, and ends up in Jarasandh's hands when he is beseiging the Yadus. Jarasandh does not really like Medusa, he is even a little afraid of her, so he sends her to Dhritarashtra in Hastinapur. The idea is that either she turns everyone in the palace into stone, creating a power vacuum in Hastinapur which Jarasandh can take advantage of (because the Kauravas and Pandavas are going to fight) or Dhritarashtra and Gandhari (both blind) use her to get rid off their political opponents and reward Jarasandh by becoming his ally against Mathura.

7. Unfortunately, in this whole journey, another bunch of people get turned into stone, and news reaches the Hindu Gods, who are all very confused about this random, undocumented issue that popped out of nowhere, and which was not supposed to happen dammit! Indra calls for a council meeting, where Pushan, god of roads, agrees to try and look into her history and where she came from.

8. Medusa meets Dhritarashtra, who is overjoyed by her existence and immediately offers to help Jarasandh against Krishna. He is, in fact, so pleased with her powers that Medusa is flattered beyond belief (even though she knows he's going to use her) and agrees to turn all of Dhritarashtra's enemies to stone. Krishna, now trapped between two powerful empires, retreats from Mathura and brings the people to Dwarika, putting more distance between himself and his enemies.

9. Krishna weds Satyabhama in Dwarika, after they kill Narakasura. Unfortunately, Narakasura's son Bhagadatta, King of Pragjyotisha, immediately becomes their enemy. Less unfortunately, Indra remembers Krishna exists, and pleased with Narakasura's death and Swarga's freedom, forgets about his insult and becomes his friend again. This is how Krishna finds out about the widespread pertrification of people.

10. Meanwhile, Pushan, in his enquiries, runs across a very angry Hermes, who rants to him about how Some People^(TM) need to listen to their King and think about the consequences of their actions and that is an actual monster UNCLE!! This is how the Hindu Pantheon learns about Medusa and the Greek Pantheon realises where she's hiding.

11. Fortunately, Perseus is still raring to go kill Medusa and free his mother. Unfortunately, Indra and Zeus are now locked in a political headlock because Zeus cannot keep his monsters within his kingdom and Indra refuses to let a random greek demigod (who just so happens to be the son of the other God of Thunder) show up in India, insisting Krishna can take care of it.

12. Zeus sends Athena and Apollo and Hermes to intercede on his behalf, Indra sends Krishna, Mitra and Saraswati. They agree to let Perseus kill Medusa, but his fame will be shortlived in human memory, and in return, Dionysos will not show up to attack India. Zeus and Indra are unimpressed with these terms, because Zeus refuses to deny his son his well-deserved kleos, and Indra refuses to let intruders into India, whether Perseus or Dionysos. It kind of spirals out of control from there.

13. Meanwhile Duryodhana** and Medusa are having the time of their lives turning people into stone, although Gandhari thinks they shouldn't be using this ability so indiscriminately. So far their victims include Vidura, Kunti, Yudhisthira and Bheem (I'm sorry, they'll recover, promise). Dhritarashtra is conflicted about all of this, because at the end of the day these people are his family, but he doesn't protest either.

14. Arjuna, Nakula and Sahadeva are left alone because Dhritarashtra refuses to allow them to be petrified; not only are they not competitors for the throne, but they could also be prevailed upon to become assets. They are not idiots though, so they leave for Madra, to take asylum under Shalya. Bhishma is given to understand that this is a sickness/disease, but he has his doubts.

*I don't really know whether you have to look into Medusa's petrifying eyes or just gazing at her face overall is enough, so she has a full face veil of a very dark colour. She had the idea for this when she noticed other women wearing this and remembered that Greek women also used veils. In true Indian soap opera style, she has a black veil so everyone knows she's the villain.

**Duryodhana operates through his father, because Dhritarashtra refuses to let him see Medusa. So although he might ask for a lot of things, Dhritrashtra almost always has a say in what happens.

[godeaterazathoth]

Issues I have with ikevamp

That I’m venting here because they won’t leave my skull

*Content warning, we’re talking about men in the past, they did some bad stuff*

Part 1, historical inaccuracies

I’m I history nut so this really gets to me, since I know the deep details of these peoples lives.

The timeline, ok so the game takes place in 18th France, correct me if I’m wrong but I think it is in the second empire (1852-1870) considered there is a noble class, yet you can clearly see the Eiffel Tower which was completed in 1889, there is no mention of the 1889 exposition, so it must be after the tower had become permanent, by then the 3rd republic was around, if we are in the republic the Count wouldn’t be called that by the npcs at all the parties he goes to, no matter which we’re in, NOBODY mentions Napoleon III at, NOT EVAN HIS UNCLE (WHOSE SOMEHOW BECAME CASS CONSCIOUS!)

How does the time travel work, example, Dazai died in 1948, his plan was seemingly to wait until he’s born in 1909 then kill himself as a baby, but then he decides to use the magic door, what are the consequences of 2 Dazais existing at once or him erasing himself from history, he’s a pretty important literary figure, does someone else replace him or does the space time continuum collapse?? Is the future Vlad sees set in stone or can it be changed, just copy someone else’s time travel bit!!!

So straight up these guys aren’t who they say they are, we’ll go through 1 by 1

Napoleon- doesn’t mention he left the love of his life to marry a girl 20 years his junior (like think how interesting it would be if he’s conflicted about love cuz he had to give it up for political reasons) -that scene where MC talks about all the ‘good’ that he did in Europe, like committing war crimes against the Spanish and Portuguese and Eastern Europeans, being a coloniser, killing the slaves he freed when they asked for more rights, killing thousands of men in a meaningless war (ligit H*tler vibes)

Arthur- goofy irl, literally believed in fairies, had 5 children and married twice but he never mentions any of this, he cheated on his first wife while she was dying of TB, he was a liberal unionist (tldr didn’t like Irish people) he was anti-immigration, might have committed fraud. We’ll get to the other issues I have with him.

Leonardo- fruity as hell, vegetarian

Mozart- they got his character completely wrong, the guy was a complete man child, vain, broke, by the end of his life his career fell off (Beethoven better composer), in love with his cousin 🤢, had a s*at fetish 🤢🤢🤢. The hole Salieri thing didn’t happen.

Vincent- they made him too mentally stable, I’m all for him being meek, but the guy had serious issues that they ignore, he ate paint thinner, was rejected by his both crushes, WHY DOES HE HAVE BOTH EARS, DID IT GROW BACK, THEY SHOULD HAVE LEFT HIM WITH ONLY ONE, also he should be ginger smh. Oh yeah and they never mentioned the s*ecide attempt.

Theo- doesn’t mention his wife, or son, WHO HE NAMED AFTER VINCENT, his wife is the person responsible for Vincent’s work not being completely forgotten, was way nicer irl.

Issac- tbh hotter irl, low key ace, maybe a fruit, kinda mean, the only thing they got right was the major virgin vibes.

Jean- WHY MAN!??!! Even if the didn’t want a lesbian route, they could have gone with any other guy from the 100 years war, Edward black prince, idk WHY GENDER BEND ONE OF THE MOST PROMINENT WOMEN IN HISTORY, I’m fine with the delusional trans dude lie, but they say that he was a guy all along, THEN WHAT WAS THE POINT OF HIM BEING BURNT AT THE STAKE IF HE WASN’T CROSS DRESSING???!!! was he double cross dressing??? This is the worst of them all, give me the girl boss we deserve (revers fate)

Dazai- not depressed enough imo, he was a leftist, again missing wife, their were two su*ecide attempts, guy lived through fire bombing, had a few children that he is fine to erase from existence.

Shakespeare- probably a fruit, again never mentioned his wife and kids, btw the way he talks is annoying, some people don’t think he’s real.

Faust- NOT A REAL PERSON.

Sanson- too young, this guys is 67, really liked the guillotine, just saw execution as his job didn’t really care, had a wife and kids.

Vlad- Ok is he supposed to be Vlad THE impaler? Cuz he’s not evil enough, or is he a Dracula reference, cuz he can’t dance that dance either, why did they call him Vlad if he isn’t a blood thirsty war criminal.

Count- not enough history to work with.

Part 2, problematic moments

So I ha have seen some posts on the low key misogynistic way the MC is written and treated and there are a lot of issues wit white washing history so another trigger warning ⚠️

Misogyny- the MC of this game is not the best, I know she’s a self insert but she has no backbone at all. She lacks agency I’m most of the routes, like the MC getting kidnapped is a troupe in all these games, but Emma can escape on her own, Kate has ⚽️, even Alice had more depth to her, seems the only thing MC can do is cry and wait to be saved, I swear she gets kidnapped once in every route, I think they could have given her more character to work with. Another thing, but Jean being a man is bad, really bad, she’s a feminist icon but they made her a man, it’s sought of saying that women aren’t capable of this so she had to have actually been a man.

Handling of SA, important one here, I’m ok with the flirty guy, but I really hate Arthur, he doesn’t just flirt with her in chapter 1 he assaults her and acts like he did her a service, and she just forgives him!?! I’m fine with a guy that sleeps around, I like Jin and Nokto fine, but the way Arthur talks about women, always calling them Birds (if they were going for English slang it doesn’t work cuz he doesn’t have a cockney accent) or worse Skirts, it’s dehumanising, and shows that to him women are vehicles for sexual pleasure and aren’t on an equal level of understanding. There are smaller parts to, Leo kisses her without consent, the Count hides the truth from her, idk but Theo calling her a ‘hound’ sounds like he’s calling her something else…

Minor points on classism, I’m not expecting the communist manifesto, but all these games aren’t very good at dealing with class deviation. In Vlad’s route, the orphan boy thinks he can impress the rich girl, this is the 19th century, capitalism is on the rise, but there’s no comment about how it’s impossible. The little school Napoleons runs is strange, considering he was in a position where benefited from poor people existing and staying poor, ( side note, he’s teaching them swordsmanship when ww1 is right around the corner, just saying they won’t need it in the military) called MC out as a social climber, these games sought of depict the past through rosé tinted glasses, there’s only passing reference to how fucked people were in the past, Also all the historical inaccuracies above tie to this.

Anyway love to hear some other opinions, (I started playing this game before my transition and have always thought it it was wired, it’s my personal least favourite just cuz I couldn’t really get into any of the guys, my OC ended up as a Carmilla reference so….)

I have seen a post talking about some of the issues before so that’s what got me to write this out, if you disagree or want to add anything I’m all ears 👂

Thanks for reading 💗💖💖💕💓💝💗🥰🥰🥰❤️✨✨✨✨❤️⭐️⭐️⭐️

[nysocboy]

Gemstones Episode 4.5, Continued: Kelvin Crashes, the Monkey Fumes, and Eli Gets a Wake-Up Call

So far in this episode, we've learned that Vance Simkins has destroyed his parents' empire by being an outdated, reactionary jerk; Lori's ex-boyfriends keep getting killed; and Kelvin's hubris is off the charts.  

Lori's Edibles: Lori and Eli want to give the siblings "some space," so they move to her house. Wait -- I thought she was living in Pigeon Forge.  If she's been living in Charleston the whole time, why hasn't she visited the Gemstones for years?

Corey meets them at the door: he dropped by to bring dinner, "Kung Pao Dynasty." Also, he left her edibles by the microwave.   Eli doesn't know what edibles are, so Miss Lori explains. Apparently he's ok with drug use now; he wasn't in earlier seasons.

Corey shakes Eli's hand and says "Have fun, you two," but as he walks away, he grimaces.  He's been killing the ex-boyfriends.

Meanwhile, Kelvin in a flamboyant costume is being photographed with the other conservatively-dressed nominees for Top Christian Man. And it's time for the Live TV Roundtable. 

The full cast list is not in the episode credits or the IMDB, but I think the conservative minister being hugged by Kelvin is Chad Darnell (top photo and left), who is gay in real life.  He works primarily in casting, but he has 21 screen credits, and a lot of theater work, including the gay-themed Love! Valour! Compassion!, Forced, and Hedwig and the Angry Inch.

Plus some gay-themed screenplays and two novels.

Back to the roundtable discussion, led by Stevie from Eastbound and Down.  First question:"Should children be taught a comprehensive overview of all major religions in school?" 

Kelvin jumps in, but doesn't answer the question.  Instead, he blathers about "I teach my followers everything good about Jesus.  The Bible can be confusing, so we translate it for modern, cutting-edge times." You're not qualified to be a Bible translator.  How about explaining passages in their historical/cultural context?  

Vance complains about "a homosexual" being nominated for the award.  "God's Word is clear on this issue."  Uh-oh, how are you on the Clobber Verses, Kelv Baby?

He's not good on the Clobber Verses.  "Um...um..lots of parts of the Bible are outdated." No, they don't refer to contemporary gay people at all!  Get with your queer theology.

Anybody who's been gay and Christian for five minutes could respond to this very vague attack easily.  And Kelvin works with queer youth, so he must have to deal with religious trauma all the time.  But he apparently doesn't even know the basics.  Hey, Kelv Baby, some books for your library.  There are hundreds more.

 All he can think of is: "Um...the Bible...um...also forbids eating shellfish."

Vance doesn't eat shellfish. How about wearing mixed fibers?  Why haven't you stoned your sister to death for having extra-marital sex?  And sold your brother into slavery?

Vance mocks Kelvin, and another pastor agrees. 

We see Kelvin's agonized face, a flashing red light, a closeup of his trembling hands.  He's having a panic attack.   At home, Jesse turns off the tv, too upset to continue. 

This was very painful to watch, since I knew exactly how to respond -- I've responded many times -- but Kelvin does not.  He has fallen from the heavens just as definitively as BJ from his dancing pole.

In Season 1, Kelvin falls into a depression and scraps the Satanic Sweep project.  In Season 2, the God Squad turns on him.  In Season 3, the Smut Busters project goes wrong, resulting in Kelvin and Keefe breaking up. I suspect that this is the end of Prism.

The Attack:  In an unfinished room, with ladders and tarps, a man I don't recognize attacks a blond woman, who looks like Vance's sister, throwing her against the door and strangling her.  

Psych!  Eli and Lori are  in her house, eating ice cream and watching Pacific Heights (1980).  Danforth (Michael Keaton), the Tenant from Hell, is getting revenge on his former landlords (Matthew Modine,  left, Melanie Griffith).

Suddenly a brick is thrown through Lori's window.  It says "Sinners."  Eli grabs a gun and runs outside to see his car on fire. 

Lori: "Eli, there's something I haven't been straight with you about. Me and you need to have a talk about my ex."

We close to "Somebody's Knocking," by Terri Gibb (1981):

Somebody's knockin' -- should I let him in?

Lord, it's the Devil.  Would You look at him?

I've heard about him, but I never dreamed  he'd have blue eyes and blue jeans

The full review, with the BJ and the Monkey scene and n*de photos of Joey Stefano, Michael Keaton, and Jason Beighe, is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

[akuaya-eng]

(Main Story) Prologue - Episode 1

- THAT CHOICE IS THE BEGINNING OF THE END -

??? (Dia)

--- Completely disappointing. To think that the familiar I sent to steal gather mana from the ‘Throne of Wisdom’ would bring back something like this.

??? (Espada)

Could it be a mistake made by the familiar? Or perhaps there's some reason related to this person---

Tuner (MC)

I hear voices… Who's there...?

??? (Dia)

Looks like just an ordinary human… Ah, it seems you've noticed. Are you still half-asleep? You look quite foolish.

??? (Espada)

What shall we do, Lord Dia?

Dia

I'll leave it to you, Espada. I have no use for mere humans.

Espada

Then, at least, shall we consume this person's soul? You haven't had much 'food' lately, have you?

Dia

… That doesn't sound too bad. Your sweets alone can't satisfy a devil's hunger.

Tuner

My soul… to be eaten? …

"Dia (ディア) - Once a prince of the Colchicum Kingdom. Now, a devil prince who devours human souls."

Dia

What's wrong? Are you so scared you can't move? Well, not that you need to move. You'll die here anyway. Now, shall I take your soul

... What? The soul… won't come out.

"Espada (工スパダ) - A knight sworn to Dia’s loyalty. Was saved from execution."

Espada

Lord Dia!? What's wrong?

Tuner

Ugh… It hurts… my chest, it’s so painful…

Espada

A stone... coming from their chest…! That stone, could it be… mana!?

Dia

Not only can I not take your soul, but you also produce mana from your own body… What exactly are you?

Tuner

I don't know… anything…

Dia

You must at least know your own name.

Tuner

Name… it's… Tuner.

Dia

I see… Well then, Tuner, feel honored. From now on, you belong to me.

Espada

Lord Dia!?

Tuner

!?

Dia

Your ability to produce mana is intriguing. You will be useful to me.

Espada

Is it alright, Lord Dia? Keeping such a suspicious person in the castle…

Dia

The purpose of sending the familiar to the ‘Throne of Wisdom’ was to obtain mana. If this person can produce mana, then our basic objective has been achieved. Besides, we already have one suspicious human here. Adding a second won't be an issue.

Espada

However…

Dia

Enough, Espada.

Espada

… I am concerned for your safety, Lord Dia. This person’s presence could bring danger to the castle.

Dia

Then your concern will be justified if that happens.

??? (Claude)

Stay away from that person, 'Devil of the Outlands.'

Tuner

'Devil of the Outlands'?

??? (Mere)

That's the name of the devil next to you.

Espada

A human and an angel? How rude to enter the castle uninvited.

??? (Claude)

I think it's much ruder to take what belongs to others without permission. It was you who sent the familiar, wasn't it?

Dia

And if it was? Even if mana appeared, this is just a human.

Tuner

Who are these people?

"Mere (メ一レ) - An angel born from the emotion of 'love'."

Mere

You seem confused. It's understandable. Please, call me Mere.

"Claude (ク口一ド) - A commander in the Achillea Empire's army, of royal blood."

Claude

I'm Claude from the Achillea Empire. I’ve come to rescue you from the devils.

Mere

Judging by your confused state, you probably don’t know anything yet, do you?

Tuner

No, besides my name, Tuner, I don't know anything. What’s happening, who am I?

Mere

I see. Then, it seems I need to explain everything from the beginning...

Mere

Here in Chagran, three races have fought since ancient times: angels, devil, and humans.

Claude

The stories say they fought over a certain gem.

Dia

A gem… you mean the 'Childhood Yearning'.

Claude

Yes. A Gem said to contain divine power, granting great power to its owner. There are nine in total, called the 'Childhood Yearning'. It's said that if you gather them all and offer them to God, your wish will be granted. Though that's probably just a fairy tale.

Mere

... That's enough about the 'Childhood Yearning'. The important thing is that they were the cause of continued conflict. But that conflict cooled down at some point. A greater problem arose — the 'Curse of Oblivion'.

It’s a curse that, upon contact, causes the body to disappear regardless of race, turning them into cursed astral entities called "ghosts". This curse spread throughout Chagran. And the curse quickly spread… the world faced the brink of destruction.

However, the Lord — God — did not abandon Chagran. When the three races pleaded for salvation at the 'Throne of Wisdom', a massive lump of mana was bestowed upon them. Mana is the only substance that can purify the curse.

Thus, the three races divided the lump of mana given by God into three parts and took it back, using its power to purify the 'Curse of Oblivion'.

Claude

Since then, the ritual has continued every year. Each race sends a representative to the 'Throne of Wisdom' to receive mana.

Dia

But it seems something different happened this year. Originally, mana should have been bestowed by God at the 'Throne of Wisdom', but it didn’t appear, right?

Claude

Yes. And instead, another being — a human — appeared. That is Tuner.

Dia

So, my familiar brought you back instead of the mana.

Tuner

I was… a substitute for mana…

Mere

Yes. Your presence is also a manifestation of divine power. We cannot let you fall into the hands of devils.

Dia

I see. Hearing that makes me even less willing to let you go.

Espada

!! Lord Dia, please step back!

(Espada shoves himself in front of Dia to protect him from a sudden claw strike)

Devil Beast

Graaah!!

Claude

A devil beast…? I didn’t sense its presence, but someone must have guided it here.

Espada

Please step back. I will deal with this devil beast!

Dia

No… I will have Tuner handle this.

Tuner

Me!? How?

Dia

You appeared in place of the mana and even generated mana from nothing. If you have the power to purify the curse, you might be able to eliminate the devil beast too. A devil beast is a creature consumed by the curse. If you can purify the curse, the beast will disappear.

Claude

I see. So you want to test Tuner’s power.

Dia

I’m sure the one who sent the beast also aims to do that. I have a good idea who it is.

Tuner

But even if you say that suddenly, I don't know what to do.

Mere

Listen carefully, Tuner, you were given to us as a replacement for the mana by the Lord. The power within you can be shared at will.

Dia

You seem to know a lot.

Mere

We’ll discuss the details after we get through this.

Tuner

Alright, I'll try…!

Devil Beast

Graaah!!

Dia

It’s coming.