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lovebugism · 3 days ago

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✶ ┄ HOLY GRAIL !

summary: in ancient rome, where survival is determined by the whims of a mad ruler, the empire's beloved general gives you – his first and only love – to the crazed emperor to ensure your safety. (6k)

pairing: marcus acacius / fem!reader, emperor geta / fem!reader

contents: established relationship, strangers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort cw for mentions of war and violence, mentions of sex work, swearing, smut 18+ (dubcon, m receiving oral, unprotected sex, cuckholding, exhibitionism) (this is a pretty dark fic so pls heed the warnings!!!)

Marcus Acacius was the name on the lips of a thousand fallen empires. His ledger ran a deep scarlet color, which dripped like proof from his sword. The war had destroyed the General over the years — had turned the man into an empty thing filled only by untamable ghosts. The relentless battle had wrung his boyhood from his body like a slow, merciless death. Any remaining innocence has since been replaced with violence.

Rome made a legacy of his grotesque evils, turned him into a saint. Marcus Acacius did not want to be a saint. He did not want to be angry; he did not want to be cruel. He only wanted to love and to be left alone with his tenderness. His mouth filled with blood instead.

You loved him like all doomed, grotesque things are meant to be loved. In the dark. In the shadows of war. In the depths of the soul.

“This is me,” he confesses, the great General Acacius, returning to you like a ghost to its haunt. “This is who I am.”

His golden armor is sullied from a victorious battle, tainted now with blotches of soil and dried blood that’s not his own. His dirtied, unholy fists tremble at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the threshold of your quarters to meet you. Marcus knows he doesn’t deserve to be held by you now. Not when he still wreaks of death.

He can still feel the breath of a fist on his bruised cheek, but the way his sword felt plunging through the beating heart of an enemy soldier plagues him most of all.

“Love turned on me long ago— It is not a burden I compel you to carry.”

So, please, do not love me, he doesn’t say. I only know how to destroy you.

You smile at him, eyes soft with sympathy, and cross the threshold of longing with an admirable effortlessness. You cradle his weathered, war-torn face in your palms, willingly staining your delicate hands with the blood stained there.

“I love you despite. So I imagine I’ll carry it anyway,” you coo to him, gentle eyes locked firmly with his heavy ones. “And I’m certain you love me in return, regardless of what you think the siege has made of you.”

“There is naught I can do about it,” Marcus admits, words heavy with choked-back emotion. He melts into your touch but continues to deny himself the want to hold you back. “Not while I still oversee this campaign. Not while there is a war to be won—”

“We love each other, don’t we?” you interject, pleading eyes searching for emotion behind his dark, stoic gaze. Marcus swallows hard. His scruffy chin scrapes your palm as he nods once in response. You grin and say the unforgiving truth out loud. “So fuck the war.”

You pull him down by his face to press a kiss to his unclean lips. Marcus rests his shaking hands over your waist and lets you build cathedrals in his mouth with your tongue. The blood in his teeth turns to holy water.

Marcus long understood that bringing you to the city would be his last act of love.

Keeping you in the heart of Rome was the only way he could ensure your safety, with the surrounding towns still under merciless siege. The people there were docile, and loyal most of all to the General who had won them a thousand wars. They would not hurt you because it was not in their kind too, and because they feared General Acacius’ wrath as much as they respected his mercy.

This was known to everyone in Rome except its Emperors.

Geta and Caracalla ruled together following their father’s untimely demise but shared not a brain between them. They were boys, after all, the oldest being hardly two-and-twenty –– it was in their nature to talk more than they listened, and to pretend as if they knew the world despite never leaving the city walls.

They were as cruel and as stupid as anyone who wished to rule an empire would be.

But the two of them relied heavily on their General to keep the restless public at ease. It made it easier for Marcus to bring you with him, knowing he had the trust of the most powerful men in Rome. He knew Geta kept meticulous care of his most precious gifts — all Marcus had to do was get you there, really, and the Emperors would do the rest for him.

It was simple, but it was not easy; though he imagines no war ever has been or would be. Both of you had survived, yes, but neither of you had been spared. Bringing you here was a testament to that, which you seemingly could not comprehend. You were as soft and green as the countryside he plucked you from, too naive for politics.

Marcus tells himself that this was the merciful decision, anyway, as he gives you a tour of Caracalla’s labyrinthine gardens — the place farthest from the feasting hall where the noblemen dined. Hidden behind climbing leaves, free from prying eyes.

“I can’t imagine why you would be so apprehensive in bringing me here. It’s beautiful,” you marvel aloud as you walk ahead of the man guiding you.

Your sandals pad faintly along the cobbled trail as you skim your palm over the bed of blooming roses. The petals feel like silk against your skin. You pluck one from the soil, careful to avoid its thorns, and hold it up to your nose. You turn to face Marcus with the crimson flower resting on your cupid’s bow.

“And it smells better, too,” you quip softly, tilting your head to your shoulder as you smirk behind the budding rose.

Marcus just barely manages to bite back his own grin until you reach out for him, tapping the delicate flower against the bridge of his strong nose. He exhales hard through his nostrils in place of a laugh.

Your giggling comes carried on the breath of a warm summer breeze — a symphony of salty ocean, dainty florals, and the pretty oils you’d bathed in. The wind billows through your thin, white gown and creates music with rustling leaves. You squint one eye when the setting sun peeks through the swishing tree limbs, bathing you in a golden-hour aura.

You’re as beautiful as sin. Sweeter than death. Smiling at him like this is the beginning of something that died the moment you entered the city walls.

Marcus clears throat and gently guides your hand away. His cautious eyes flit around the vacant garden. He’s constantly looking over his shoulder, you find, despite being the strongest man in all of Rome. You feel safest at his side, so you don’t know why he always looks so frightened.

“I know you are drunk on youth and immortality, petal, but we cannot get ahead of ourselves,” he advises, all stiff and stern, though the term of endearment spills effortlessly from his mouth. “We’re in the city now. So we must play the part. Like we discussed.”

He speaks to you with an unintentional sort of vagueness that makes you bow your head like a scolded child. Your arm falls limp at your side. A scarlet petal slips from its stem and hits the unforgiving stone.

“I know,” you murmur with a poorly hidden frown that conveys otherwise. Your sheepish gaze flits from the ground to Marcus’ unwavering stare and to the ground again. “I just thought— whenever we were alone, that we might—”

“We aren’t alone. We must behave as though the city is full of eyes. Understand?”

“I can’t,” you confess, peering up at the General from beneath your lashes.

Marcus’ chest stings, like the fiery sun blazing his newly-fashioned armor. “What do you mean you can’t?” he bites emotionlessly.

He looks like a corrupt sort of angel in this light, unnaturally handsome and hopelessly wartorn. He was as hard as the earth below your feet — a statue made of clay, iron, and marble — cold to the touch and melting only for you.

His heavy eyes were so brown they looked almost black, and they shone with a perpetual sort of gloom. His gaze swam with the prophetic darkness of a man who’s seen too much, though you often felt like you could drown in its void. For a man so adept at killing, he looked at you with a remarkable softness.

It wasn’t as shallow as physical desire. It was something far more cruel. You wanted Marcus Acacius the same way flesh wanted to knit itself together over a healing wound. It was simply in your nature to love him.

“I mean, it’s impossible,” you ramble with a concerned furrow to your brow. Your grip on the flower’s papery stem tightens until the bulb rattles with the force. “How am I to be here with you but not touch you? That’s like asking the seasons not to change— It’s unnatural, and it’s cruel—”

Marcus swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. His hands begin to ache with the urge to touch you. He balls them into fists instead.

“It’s the only way I know to keep you safe!” he confesses, words sounding heavy in his mouth. His eyes flit across the garden in a paranoid search of something that isn’t there. “Emperor Geta will take care of you. I know he will. And his brother is a half-wit, but he is kind when he wishes. He’ll take a liking to you, I’m sure of it—”

You interject his anxious rambling with a stubborn shake of your head.

“I can’t be someone else’s,” you murmur, voice as wet as the tears glittering in your wide-eyed gaze. “I don’t know how.”

“You will learn,” Marcus tells you with an emotionless stare. Not because he’s sure you will, but because he knows you have to. “For me.”

Your pretty features swirl with anguish. “Marcus…” you whisper his name in a feeble whimper caught in your throat.

He does not soften at your emotion like you’re used to. He’s practiced apathy for so long that it comes naturally to him now. He bites his tongue to keep from kissing you and lets the blood stain his teeth all over again.

“If not for your own sake, then for mine. The Emperors would have my head if they understood the pretenses I brought you under.”

You flinch at his words, perhaps finally understanding the weight of the unforgiving world in which you live. The surest example of such cruelty stands before you now, in the only man you ever loved now using your purest devotion as a means to keep you pliant. But your anger for the merciless arrangement is long eclipsed by your yearning.

“Then I will,” you tell him, rigid with a glacial disposition Marcus hasn’t seen before now.

The choices here were few. Either you were slaughtered outside the city walls by soldiers and pillagers, or you were slaughtered within them — in the metaphorical sense that burns physically in your chest now.

Being without Marcus feels like a fate worse than death, but you want him so desperately to live. So much so that you’ll fall on the sword of your longing and bleed out at his feet. Knowing that you’re under the same sky would have to be enough for you.

You can’t tell which it is — sacrifice or self-slaughter — but Marcus knows it isn’t as poetic as all that.

Death is death.

Emperor Geta staggers drunkenly down the spiral stone steps of the west wing of his castle. The path to his chambers is illuminated by several dwindling torches hung along the brick walls. The subtle squeaking of his leather sandals sounds much louder in the quiet — filled only by crackling flames, a distant dripping noise, and the song he slurs under his breath.

The latter ceases suddenly when he stumbles to a stop at the sight of General Acacius. The man stands like a statue outside his bedroom door — arms crossed behind his back, old spine perfectly straight — like the obedient guard dog he is.

The thought makes the Emperor’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “What are you doing here, dog?” he calls to the General as he approaches him, voice echoing down the soulless corridor.

“Your nameday present, your majesty—” Marcus answers and tries not to make a face when the Emperor stands before him. The bittersweet scent of wine stains his breath, overwhelmingly so. Geta was never one to practice temperance. “—I was told to see that you got it.”

The younger man hesitates. “From my uncle?” he wonders aloud.

Marcus nods wordlessly in response.

Geta pauses for a moment. His wide, glassy eyes flit over the General’s shoulder to the arched doorway behind him. His stomach swirls at the thought of what may lie inside. The last nameday present his uncle sent from overseas was a monkey his younger brother has grown much too attached to.

“Well… What is it?”

Marcus swallows hard and steps aside. “Look inside, your majesty.”

Geta takes a deep breath in and swings the creaking door open. His bedroom is lush with crimson silk and golden candlelight, familiarly fragranced with cinnamon and sweet myrrh. It’s accompanied by something foreignly floral, a feminine rosy-lavender that catches his attention before his eyes ever find you.

He steps through the threshold and finds a strange girl standing by the window, before a platter of fruit and wine — bathed half in the silver beams of a full moon, and half in flickering orange flames.

White silk adorns your frame, so delicate it’s nearly see-through. One of your shoulders is mouthwateringly bare, and there’s a slit in the fabric that rises to your hip. You look as pure as a dove, though you’re so obviously built for sin.

The ground sways beneath Geta’s unsteady feet.

You crunch audibly into an apple before you realize anyone’s there. The juice runs down your chin before you swipe it away with the back of your hand. Only then do your eyes lock with the Emperor’s, who seems equally stunned to see you there. You tense and say nothing as you hide the bitten fruit behind your back.

“It’s a woman,” Geta observes to no one in particular, though his dark eyes have not yet wavered from yours.

Marcus stands behind him and nods — hands still clasped behind his back, heart still pounding against his ribcage. “Yes, your majesty. In plain terms.”

“Well,” the Emperor glances over his shoulder. “What does she do?”

“Whatever you want,” the General answers, though the words taste like vinegar on his tongue. He swallows the bitterness down like bile and leers at you, looking upon his lover as though she were a stranger. “You need only ask.”

Geta, satisfied by his answer, turns back to you. His initial surprise has ebbed into something more pleased, diabolically so. His pink lips curl into a sneer as he walks slowly towards you, eyeing you up and down with curious eyes — a predator stalking its prey.

“Is that true?” he asks you, voice ringing through the quiet room. “Or is he confusing you for a dutiful hound?”

“A dutiful whore, your majesty,” you correct with an acquiescent smile, following the story as Marcus intended.

The half-truth comes easily to you. Not a lie exactly, but not the whole tale either. You’d spent many of your years working in a brothel on the outskirts of Rome. You were a young woman, unmarried, without family or viable prospects — whoring seemed the most obvious decision then, though it feels so long ago now.

You’d waited your whole life for something, for Marcus, though you hadn’t expected it to kill you when you found it. You won’t die a saint if the crazed Emperor decides to take your head, but perhaps you could be a martyr. Perhaps that’ll be enough.

Fear beats through your body like a second heart, but your eyes never waver from the Emperor’s. It’s easiest to meet his gaze. He feels more like a human that way.

There are flecks of gold in his dark eyes, and dark strands in his gold hair. He’s got stubble on his long neck, spots on his broad nose, and wrinkles on his forehead. Not quite as perfect as the pristine white-gold armor would let on.

His eyes flit down your form once more. Something sparks in the deep brown of them, a flicker of silent realization. He spins suddenly on the heel of his sandal to flash Marcus an accusatory glare.

“Is she your whore, General?” he lilts into the heavy silence. His brows raise when he receives no answer from the man across the room. “The question was not rhetorical, Acacius.”

“No, your majesty. She is not mine,” Marcus answers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. It’s like he’s plunging a knife through his own heart. He can feel the cold sting of the sharpened blade and the burn of the blood on his skin. “Though, I don’t believe whores belong to anyone.”

A boyish chuckle spills from the Emperor’s mouth. “No. They don’t,” he says with an airy giddiness. “Not before now, anyway—”

Geta spins back again, pleated skirt fanning around his pale thighs. His smile fades with an eerie swiftness. “What are you waiting for? Undress,” he commands with a wave of his ringed hand.

Your wide eyes flit instinctively past him to Marcus, who still idles in the doorway. Only then does he realize how long he’s been staring at you. He forces himself to glance off in another direction, but his gaze keeps finding yours — like a magnet, or a planet with its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes lock, and the only thing you hear is each other, though neither of you has spoken a word. This is the only way, you hear his voice in your head as clearly as your own. This is the only way to stay together. The only way to survive.

Geta mistakes your fear.

“Don’t worry about him, little dove,” he coos, and taps the bottom of your chin with his fingers — as soft and petaled as your own. He smiles when your attention turns to him again, speaking loud enough for the General to hear. “He’s only the guard dog. And good boys get scraps, don’t they, Acacius?”

Marcus’ face screws like he’s tasted something sour. He’s grateful the Emperor isn’t looking at him to see it. “They do, your majesty,” he monotones.

“So you will watch. And report to my uncle how his lovely present fared,” he calls to the older man, though his eyes remain locked with yours. You tense when his pale hand reaches suddenly for your face. He holds your cheeks in his fingers until your lips jut in a soft pout. “Let’s hope I don’t have to send him back your head, little dove.”

He says it with an absentminded effortlessness, as though it’s something he’s done before.

Still, you manage a small smile and blink up at him with innocent eyes. “What good is a dead whore, your majesty?” you quip.

Geta’s grin widens. “Precisely. Now undress.”

You reach for the singular sleeve of your slip with trembling fingers. Your right hand sweeps across your left shoulder, skin blazing with fear and anticipation. The fabric trails down down down your arm before falling to your feet in a puddle of milky white silk. Your bare body glows silver and gold between moonlight and flame.

Goosebumps pebble over your skin despite the humid summer night as Geta circles you like prey. His eyes trail slowly down your form in time with his rhythmic steps. The sound of his sandals scrapping the stone floor, crackling candlelight, and subdued breathing are the only sounds in the quiet room for several long moments.

The Emperor disappears behind you, and you forget how to breathe. Your wide, wet eyes find Marcus once more — pleading, though for what, you cannot say. His face reveals nothing but wrath burns in his gaze.

Geta reappears at your right side. You smell grape wine on his breath when he nears you, breathing heavily through his mouth as he reaches out to touch you. His ringed hands smooth over your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat. He smiles as though your fright pleases him.

“You’re skittish for a whore,” he muses, playful in a way that makes your stomach wrench. “Are you sure the General didn’t bring me a virgin?”

You swallow hard as his hand trails down your body. Over the swell of your breast, skimming his thumb over your taut nipple, before tracing the expanse of your ribs. His fingers run down your stomach and past the thatch of hair between your legs. They dip finally between your thighs.

Geta hums a faint moan at the velvet feeling of your pussy. The way your lips part for his fingers, silky skin warm and wet to the touch.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, your majesty,” you answer, breathing hard through your nose when he pulls his hand away — a warmth you find yourself begrudgingly grieving.

“I need only ask…” the Emperor coos, running his middle and pointer finger over your bottom lip. They shine with the honey you leak despite yourself. Your mouth parts, and he rests the pads of them on your tongue. “…Do I not?”

You nod wordlessly through the salty fingers in your mouth, trying to imagine their Marcus’.

Geta smiles when he parts from you. “Undress me,” he demands.

You work at his tricky armor with nervous hands and bated breath.

You unclasp his cape first. The white fabric, now free from its chain, falls heavily to the floor behind him. Your fingers have gone noticeably clammy as they struggle with the sleeves of his tunic. It takes you a beat too long to loosen the laces at his shoulders. The cloth falls finally and puddles around his feet, leaving his lean body on display before you.

His torso is lean and mostly hairless, save for splotches of chestnut on his sternum and stomach. His skin is smooth and flushed from the alcohol. His stomach is slim but noticeably full. The Emperor is well-taken care of, though his subjects outside the keep suffer from the consequences of war.

Your trembling fingers curl around the hem of his loincloth. His pale skin is warm to the touch, boiling with desire while you freeze over with fear. You crouch before him as you drag the garment down his scruffy thighs. You hear Geta sigh above you when his half-hard cock meets the cool summer night air.

He’s paler there compared to the rest of his golden body, though the mushroom tip glows a faint strawberry-red color. A vein trails in jagged lines to the base of his heavy cock, fading as it reaches the thatch of dark blonde hair at his pubic bone. He’s not nearly as thick as Marcus, though not many people could hope to be — but he is long and thin and soft like velvet.

“How do I look?” Geta wonders as he steps out of his loincloth. He tilts his chin to his chest to peer down at you, on your knees to untie the intricate laces of his sandals. You blink up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Without my armor,” he adds, then repeats. “How do I look?”

You realize, then, that he wants your praise. Though you’re unsure why, you’re not in any position to deny him of it. “You’re a— a very handsome man, your majesty,” you respond cautiously, with a wavering smile.

You hear his breath catch at the compliment. The corner of his mouth flickers upward, and his nostril flares as he takes a deep breath in.

“Well, go on, then,” he insists suddenly, nodding his head to egg you onward. “Good whores don’t keep their masters waiting, do they? You don’t want to see me impatient, little dove.”

You wrap his stiff cock in a tentative fist, averting your gaze as you give an experimental kitten lick to the bulbous, strawberry tip. Your tongue swipes away the pearlescent pre-cum beading there. The salty tang is foreign on your tongue, sweeter and thicker than you’re used to.

You imagine your lover when you take the Emperor’s cock in your mouth. A practiced form of dissociation that comes naturally to you now.

You focus on the way the stone floor digs into your knees as you cup his balls in your hand — a desperate attempt to finish him quickly. Geta shudders when you swallow him whole, burying your nose in the coarse thatch of hair at the base of his cock. His head tips back as he groans at the ceiling.

“You are a proper whore…” the Emperor moans with a delirious smile. He tilts his flushed cheek to his freckled shoulder to sneer at Marcus, then frowns when his eyes meet the back of him. “Are you distracted, General?”

The man keeps his back turned and his eyes trained on the wall, counting the bricks there to distract his racing mind. His mouth snarls at the Emperor’s words. His hands ball into fists as he fights to keep his composure.

“Just giving you your privacy, your majesty.”

“Nonsense!” Geta laughs, loud. “You should watch! You should observe— so you know what to tell my uncle.”

Marcus can hear the mischievous lilt in the younger boy’s voice. Like it’s all just a game to him. Like you’re just a whore to be played with, and like Marcus’ only hope of companionship is warfare. Both might’ve been true once, but not since you find each other.

The general smacks his lips against his teeth. “As you wish,” he deadpans and spins on the heel of his sandal.

He’s strangely grateful to find the Emperor’s body obscuring your own. Geta’s lean, pale form towers over your kneeling one — back muscles flexing, hips thrusting, fingers knitting in your hair.

But Marcus can still hear the sounds of your mouth on the other man’s cock. The room fills with heavy breathing, wet noises, and the Emperor’s unabashed whines. Embers of envy burn in the General’s empty chest. A wildfire of want and wrath rages behind his ribcage.

You swallow with Geta’s cock in your throat and squeeze softly at his balls. You hear his breath hitch just before a lengthy moan spills from his parted mouth. Several loads of salty cum spit down your throat a second later. The man shows you little mercy as he holds you by your hair, keeping your nose pressed to his pubic bone. You take shallow breaths through your nose and try not to choke.

You pull off of him when he lets you go. A string of saliva threatens to keep you connected. You take a deep breath in and swipe at your swollen mouth with the back of your hand, staying on your knees while the Emperor tilts his head back. He exhales a breathy laugh of relief at the ceiling. You peer up at him with wide, wet eyes, still so uncertain of your fate.

“Proper whore, indeed,” Geta muses, almost to himself, as he drops his heavy head once more.

His flushed chest sparkles with a foreign feeling at the sight of you beneath him — eyes teary and fearful, lips swollen and rosy, features flushed with sweat and sex. His cock jerks, still sensitive but threatening to harden again. He grips himself with a loose fist.

“On the bed,” he instructs suddenly, then grins madly at your shock. “You didn’t think I was done with you, surely. Not until I mount you like a mare, anyway— Treat you like the bitch in heat you are…”

Geta cups your warm cheek in his free hand. His touch is strangely gentle as he cradles you there, right before he smacks gently at your jaw to urge you upward.

Your bare feet pad towards the bed, then. Geta swats your ass as you go and laughs when you squeak in response. You fight the urge to look at Marcus, lest you see the rage burning in his eyes — lest he see the heartbreak swimming in yours.

Marcus watches you crawl over the silken sheets, both of you sporting similar far-off gazes. He feels a bit like a ghost now. An empty, invisible thing, doomed to watch the rest of the world go on without ever being able to live in it. It’s dreadfully symbolic of how he’s lived most of his life, and how he’s spent the years loving you. Because even if a ghost is full of love, the only thing it knows to do is haunt.

The silk pillow feels cool under your burning cheek. The mattress dips under the Emperor’s weight when he kneels behind you. His ringed fingers smooth over your ass and down the arch of your back. He treats you with an uncharacteristic sort of tenderness, as though he were molding you out of clay.

“You are a pretty thing, aren’t you?” he whispers under his breath. “And timid, too… I like that…”

Your pussy clenches at his words despite yourself. Geta’s chest swells with pride accordingly. “You don’t have to be scared, little dove. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Despite his words, he does not bother to ready you for his cock when he positions himself at your pulsing entrance. You hadn’t expected him to, of course — not many men were as kind as Marcus in that way, who often treated your pleasure as if it were his own. But the slick sticking to your thighs has made your pussy more than pliant. Your velvet walls swallow Geta’s cock with a pulsing vigor.

The Emperor groans as he fucks into you, savoring every inch as he buries himself to the hilt. His ringed fingers dig into the plush of your waist, as though you were a toy he didn’t want getting snatched away.

“Look at the hound!” Geta giggles boyishly to himself. “He’s itching for a feel of you— I just know it.”

Marcus remains as still and stoic as the battalion trained him to be. He reveals nothing on his face, though his skin prickles with flames of envy beneath his armor.

Marcus Acacius was not a jealous man. His love for you was a testament to that. He visited the brothel you boarded in and spared the same coins as every man in the establishment did. But it was different now. Because the Emperor does not deserve you, and he forces Marcus to watch as if he knows it, too.

Something within him seethes, like a feral animal trapped behind his ribcage, desperately clawing its way out.

“Look at him,” Geta snaps when he sees you staring at the wall, eyes glassy and glazed over. He’s grinning all over again when your gaze snaps to Marcus’.

The soldier’s weathered eyes burn with tears then. General Acacius has faced death a thousand times over, but it wasn’t quite as heartwrenching as this. His wrath simmers to a boil. He swallows it down like fire.

This is her salvation, he tells himself. This is how she survives.

Your features twist with the anguish of being seen as the Emperor lays himself over your back. His slick chest sits flush with your spine, pinning you to the mattress. “I bet he can taste you now. Smell you,” he murmurs in your ear, chapped mouth brushing the shell of it. “His mouth is salivating at the thought of putting his tongue on you— Isn’t it, dog?”

Marcus swallows through the emotion threatening to strangle him. He blinks away stinging tears and feigns an air of nonchalance. “It would be… impolite to talk so brashly about something that doesn’t belong to me, your majesty,” the General responds. Obedient. Loyal like a hound.

Geta grins wide. “Good answer, Acacius.”

When the Emperor finally fucks into you, it’s with a sloppy sort of precision. There is no rhythm or care to his thrusts. He is led only by his blinding pleasure, like a man who has only ever fucked playthings and his own fist. He props himself on one forearm and curls the other beneath you, holding your breast in his ringed hand.

Geta’s flushed cheek presses against your own while he slides in and out and into you again. You hear his groaning as you feel it rumbling in his chest, still laid against your back. You stare at a framed portrait on the wall across the room and wait for it to be over, even as your body refuses to dismiss its simmering orgasm.

Your swollen clit ruts against the silk sheets with each of the Emperor’s sloppy thrusts. You can feel a wet spot forming beneath you, and your stomach twists at the thought of seeing proof of your own pleasure.

His balls smack your leaking cunt, creating a symphony of lewd noises — moaning, whimpering, clapping, smacking. Marcus thinks the sounds of war were more merciful than this.

“Do you understand what that means, little dove?” Geta croons into your ear, words choppy through his labored breaths and irregular thrusts. “You belong— to me now… So whatever you used to be— whoever’s you used to be— no longer matters.”

He thrusts once, hard, and shudders above you with a choked-back groan. You grit your teeth to swallow down your own noises of pleasure. The assault on your clit, though unintentional, is still yet relentless. You feel the distant white-hot burning feeling begin to swell in the pit of your stomach. A coil about to snap.

“Fucking me— Making me feel good—” the Emperor pants, punctuated by his hips against your ass. “—Is your only duty now. Understand?”

You nod, cheek running over the silk cushion as you grip it in your fists. “Yes, your majesty,” you gasp.

Geta presses his smile to the apple of your cheek. He can feel you leaking around him. You’re enjoying this just as much as he is, to be sure. A proper whore, indeed.

“Now… Take my spend like a good bitch, and thank me for it—”

He fucks you harder, and your face twists with a pleasure you’re too weak to fight away.

Your gaze falls instinctively to Marcus as your orgasm threatens to swallow you whole. Your eyes squeeze shut in a feeble attempt to hide. Your mouth parts with a silent moan as you cum around the Emperor’s cock.

“Thank you, your majesty,” you whimper obediently into the pillow as you tremble beneath him. “Thank you.”

Geta buries a whine in your neck when he cums again. He gives you only two pitiful, warm loads but still possesses more stamina than your Marcus. He stills, then shudders, then rests his unforgiving bodyweight on top of you when pleasure makes a puddle of him. And of you, you assume, as a mixture of your spend leaks out of your cunt and onto the sheets.

“Write to my uncle, Acacius—” Geta slurs into your skin, heavy through labored pants. “—A thank you for my nameday present.”

Marcus forgets, until then, that he can still be seen. He felt more akin to a corpse hidden in the walls, forced to spend his afterlife in a merciless purgatory. His heart has stopped beating, frozen over, and now sits dead in his chest. He will never be as gentle as he was with you. He will be bloodied knuckles and pulsing wounds. Rough and cruel and angry.

“Yes, your majesty,” the General nods, thankful that it’s over now.

Geta rolls off of your body and onto the empty spot beside you — not shy about his nude form or yours. The sudden lack of warmth makes you shiver.

“And tell him to send another— To keep the General’s bed warm, too,” he says, patting your ass with his palm before smoothing tenderly over the skin. “One whore’s as good as any other, I’m sure.”

Marcus flinches at the thought of being with anyone other than you. He couldn’t hide the look of disgust if he tried. It makes the Emperor laugh loudly in response.

“Oh, did you— Did you want to try this one?” Geta muses knowingly, pointing to your limp body, still trembling beside him with the aftershocks of your orgasm.

“No. No, no, no— See, this one’s mine,” he corrects the General as if he were a child. “And it would be impolite to touch something that belongs to me, would it not? It would be treasonous, even.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Marcus nods, lip flickering in a mere hint of a smirk as his plan finally comes to fruition. “It would be.”

The Emperor sees you now as his property, and no one hurts what belongs to him without meeting a certain death. Marcus is comforted only by the thought that nothing can touch you now. Not even him. But perhaps that’s the price he pays for love. Perhaps, in the end, love is grief.

“So best tread lightly, Acacius,” Geta warns with a crooked smile, petting you like a dog. “I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

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fading-event-608 · 2 days ago

Text

It’s thanksgiving in us and black Friday tomorrow. I do not participate in either, and I hope you do not too. But if you do, I want to remind you that there haven’t been a safe day in Gaza for over a year. For this thanksgiving many in Gaza would be lucky to be warm or sated, and I'm not even going to talk about safety. Falastin’s family (and many more) will be thankful to have ANYTHING on the table today, and with the current rates of donations they will, and I promise I’m not over exaggerating, freeze or starve to death.

Her family has endured more than 50 displacements now and has had many family members martyred since last October. They wanted to buy another tent and waterproof materials in September* but they didn’t get enough donations (they are forced to spend what they have on food) and now they are starving.

Last time the campaign met the daily goal of 500 USD was 22 days ago - a goal that was meant to be a stepping stone. And this week they didn't even raise 400 USD so far. If you are not familiar with prices in Gaza or Falastin’s campaign you may think that it’s a lot, but it’s very far from the truth. Prices in Gaza are still rising, aid is getting sparser (just like the world's attention to Palestine) and they need all the help they can get to feed 26 people. Even 1 or 5 dollars can help since it will push the campaign up in the algorithm on gofundme.

Donate via Gofundme (in SEK! check rates below please): LINK

$5 CAD = kr39 SEK $5 USD = kr55 SEK €5 = kr57 SEK $10 CAD = kr78 SEK $10 USD = kr109 SEK €10 = kr115 SEK $25 CAD = kr195 SEK $25 USD = kr274 SEK €25 = kr289 SEK $50 CAD = kr390 SEK $50 USD = kr547 SEK €50 = kr577 SEK $100 CAD = kr780 SEK $100 USD = kr1,094 SEK €100 = kr1,155 SEK

Donate via PayPal (in USD): LINK

Incentives:

raffle for a hand-made Palestinian thob LINK (from 50 USD)

commissions from me (from 15 USD) - LINK for an example.

Please match/up my donation from 3 days ago if you can.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vetting info: #282 in El-Shab-Hussein and Nabulsi's spreadsheet [here], #957 in the Butterfly Project spreadsheet [here]

Falastin's account - please visit and reblog.

*the post says 24 family members but on oct 6th this year Falstin's cousin was martyred and his 2 orphaned children are now in their care.

#falastin #free palestine #thanksgiving

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solxamber · 2 days ago

Text

1800-Curse-Control || Lilia Vanrouge

You decide to open a hotline for curing curses with Lilia. It goes exactly how you imagined it would—maybe even a little better.

“Lilia,” you said, rubbing your temples as you leaned against the counter in Ramshackle’s disaster of a kitchen. “Grim’s eating me out of house and home, literally. If I can’t afford the repairs soon, the roof will cave in. But all he cares about is premium tuna! Do you know how much that stuff costs?”

Lilia, who was casually floating upside down for no apparent reason, looked entirely too entertained. “Ah, the plight of a homeowner,” he said, grinning. “Why not turn your misfortune into opportunity? I’ve been told I have exceptional customer service skills, and I’ve been dreadfully bored. Let’s open a hotline for removing curses!”

You blinked at him. “A hotline. For curing curses.”

“Yes, my dear beastie,” he said, flipping upright midair and landing gracefully. “Think about it! This school is crawling with fools who drink unlabeled potions, poke magical artifacts, and anger vengeful spirits just for sport. You’d be rich in a week!”

“…I hate how much sense that actually makes.”

“It’s a foolproof plan,” Lilia continued, already pulling a notepad from somewhere to scribble down ideas. “I’ll handle the exorcisms and the cackling, naturally. You, my dear entrepreneur, can be the charming face of the operation. We’ll call it—hmm—‘Curse-B-Gone.’”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fine, ‘Hex Hotline.’”

You considered it. On one hand, it sounded completely ridiculous. On the other hand, there was that third-year who accidentally swapped his voice with a frog’s last week and the freshmen who kept mysteriously sprouting feathers.

“…How much are we charging?”

“Ah-ha! I knew you’d come around!” Lilia said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s see, we’ll need tiers. Minor hex removal? Hundred thaumarks. Major curses—hair-growing hexes, spontaneous transformation curses—those will start at Five Hundred.”

“And what about something, like, really bad? What if someone’s whole body turns into a pumpkin or something?”

“That’s a premium package. One thousand thaumarks.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Okay, I’m in. But if this flops, you’re buying Grim’s tuna for the next month.”

Lilia smirked, his fangs glinting mischievously. “Deal.”

By the end of the day, you’d set up a magical hotline using some weird orb Lilia “borrowed” from the library, a vaguely threatening poster campaign across the campus (“Cursed? Hexed? A jackal-headed god show up at your dorm? Call us!”), and a suspiciously well-stocked supply of anti-curse materials Lilia claimed were “leftovers” from his youth.

You weren’t sure whether to feel excited or like you’d just signed up for the most bizarre mistake of your life. Either way, you couldn’t wait to see how this would go down.

The orb hotline rang for the first time, glowing ominously on the rickety desk in Ramshackle. You and Lilia exchanged glances.

“Answer it!” he whispered, like this was some spy mission and not a cursed customer service line.

With a deep breath, you picked it up. “Uh… Hello, this is the Cursed and Confused Hotline. How can we—”

“YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!” Ace’s voice screamed on the other end. “HE’S GOING TO KILL ME THIS TIME!”

You winced, holding the orb away from your ear. “Ace? What happened?”

“I DON’T KNOW! I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE TEA!”

“Okay, and?”

“And I might’ve…accidentally used that weird sugar in the Heartslabyul pantry, the one that glows in the dark? And now Riddle’s head is covered in, like…peonies. Big, pink peonies. They keep growing whenever he gets mad, which, uh, is always.”

You slapped your forehead. “You cursed your housewarden?!”

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO!” Ace wailed. “I thought it was sugar, not cursed fertilizer! Look, can you just fix this before he declares ‘off with my head’ for real?”

“Ugh, fine. Where are you now?”

“Hiding in the rose bushes. He hasn’t found me yet, but I think I heard him sharpening a guillotine.”

“Classic Heartslabyul,” Lilia said cheerfully, already packing his so-called emergency kit.

When you and Lilia arrived at Heartslabyul, it was pure chaos. Riddle stood in the center of the garden, his face as red as his hair—and also half-obscured by an explosion of giant pink peonies blooming out of his head like some cursed bouquet.

“TREY!” Riddle bellowed. “GET THE GARDEN SHEARS!”

Ace was crouched in a rose bush nearby, whispering frantically. “Please tell me you brought an anti-cursed-flower spray or something!”

You ignored him and approached Riddle cautiously. “Uh, Riddle? You’ve got—”

“I KNOW WHAT I HAVE!” Riddle shrieked, a few more flowers blooming on his head. “I demand immediate remedy! Or else—”

“We’ll fix it,” Lilia cut in, grinning like this was the most fun he’d had in centuries. “Now, let’s see…” He pulled a vial of glowing liquid from his kit. “This should do the trick.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, eyeing the suspiciously fizzing vial.

“Of course not,” Lilia said, popping it open.

He dumped the liquid over Riddle’s head without warning. The flowers immediately shriveled up and disappeared.

Riddle blinked, touching his head in astonishment. “…It’s gone?”

“You’re welcome,” Lilia said with a dramatic bow.

Ace peeked out from the bushes. “So…he’s not mad anymore, right?”

Riddle’s death glare answered that question.

“RUN!” you yelled, dragging Ace out of the garden as Riddle shouted about punishment for “sugar crimes.”

Back at Ramshackle, you slumped against the desk. “We’re never doing house calls again.”

Lilia just laughed. “Oh, but the drama! I live for it!”

The hotline orb began glowing again, pulsing with a foreboding, bluish light.

You groaned. “If this is Ace again, I swear—”

Lilia waved his hand. “Come now, it’s probably another entertaining disaster! Answer it!”

You reluctantly picked up. “Cursed and Confused Hotline. What’s your—”

“FIX. THIS. NOW!” came Azul’s shrill, panicked voice.

You blinked. “Azul? What’s—”

“I CAN’T EVEN DESCRIBE WHAT HE’S DONE THIS TIME!”

“Oh, come on, Azul!” Floyd’s voice cut in, cackling in the background. “It’s a masterpiece!”

“Masterpiece?” Azul screeched. “You flooded the dining room and filled it with—WHY ARE THERE EELS IN THE SOUP POTS?”

“Because it’s hilarious!” Floyd howled, clearly having the time of his life.

Jade’s calm voice joined in, oozing politeness as always. “To be fair, Floyd has a point. The eels are thriving in there.”

Azul sputtered like a broken faucet. “THRIVING?! THEY’RE STEALING PEOPLE’S FOOD!”

“Sounds efficient to me,” Floyd said. You could practically hear him smirking. “Dinner and a show!”

Lilia perked up. “Eels in soup pots? How creative!”

“Don’t encourage him!” Azul barked. “Do you know how much it costs to repair the water damage he’s caused? The walls are dripping! The chandelier is dripping! I AM DRIPPING!”

“That’s not cursed,” you said, trying to hide your amusement. ��That’s just Floyd being—well, Floyd.”

“Oh, no, it’s cursed,” Azul hissed. “Every time I try to remove the eels, the water level rises. They’re like aquatic squatters! Fix it or I swear I’ll—”

The sound of something massive splashing cut him off, followed by Floyd’s uncontrollable laughter.

“HAHAHA! He slipped into the soup pot! Jade, did you see that?”

“I did,” Jade replied, his voice as smooth as ever. “It was quite elegant.”

“AZUL’S AN EEL NOW!” Floyd cried. “Eel bros for life, baby!”

The orb started vibrating violently.

“Get. Over. Here. Now.” Azul’s voice was barely a whisper, the tone of someone seconds away from an aneurysm.

You sighed and grabbed your bag. “Let’s go before he implodes.”

When you arrived at Mostro Lounge, it was exactly what you expected—and somehow worse. The entire dining area was flooded, eels swam lazily in the soup pots, and Azul was perched on a chair, drenched from head to toe and glaring murderously at Floyd, who was happily paddling through the water like it was his personal playground.

“Finally!” Azul barked, waving his wet hand. “Do something! Anything!”

Floyd, half-submerged in a soup pot, waved at you. “Hey! You wanna join the eel party? First rule—no rules!”

Lilia clapped his hands. “This is magnificent chaos!”

Azul groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’ll double your pay if you fix this immediately.”

You glanced at Lilia, who was already pouring a suspiciously glowing liquid into the water.

“This should work,” he said cheerfully.

The water started to drain, the eels vanished in puffs of smoke, and the room returned to normal—except for Floyd, who now floated upside down in midair, spinning like a cursed top.

“Whoa, this is AWESOME!” Floyd laughed, twirling like a maniac. “I’m a flying eel!”

Azul sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as you said “I’m charging you extra for emotional damages.”

The hotline orb flared up again, casting a frantic purple glow. You groaned, mid-sip of tea.

“I don’t know if I can handle more insanity.”

Lilia, perched upside down on the couch, grinned. “Nonsense! Chaos keeps the heart young. Answer it!”

Reluctantly, you picked it up. “Cursed and Confused Hotline. What did you do, and how bad is it?”

“It’s me! It’s Epel!” came the desperate, whisper-shouted voice of the Pomefiore freshman. “I need your help—immediately! I’ve got the worst curse of all on me.”

“Worst curse?” you asked, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Vil,” Epel said, voice shaking. “And Rook.”

“...Epel, those are people, not curses.”

“They are when Vil finds out I repurposed his limited-edition face mask jars as apple cider mugs for the guys in Savanaclaw!”

Lilia burst into a delighted cackle. “Oh, that’s fantastic!”

“Not fantastic! Vil’s gonna flay me alive!” Epel hissed. “And Rook’s hunting me down like a rabbit in the woods. Please, ya gotta help!”

You tried not to laugh. “How exactly do you want me to help? I can’t exactly—”

A loud thud echoed through the call, followed by Epel screaming, “He found me! NO! PUT THAT BOW DOWN!”

“Bonjour, my friend~!” Rook’s voice came through, as smooth as velvet and disturbingly cheerful. “Ah, how beautiful the chase! Like a fox cornered by the hounds, our petit pomme has finally been found!”

“ROOK, NO! DON’T HAND ME OVER!”

“Oh, petit lapin,” Rook said, unbothered, “the punishment will only make you stronger. Think of it as a trial by fire!”

“I DON’T WANT TO BE STRONGER, I WANNA BE ALIVE!” Epel shrieked.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Rook, what exactly are you planning to do with him?”

“Ah, worry not,” Rook replied. “I am but a humble messenger delivering him to justice. Vil has been most patient.”

“HE CALLED ME A PEASANT AND THREW A HEEL AT ME, THAT’S PATIENT?” Epel howled.

Lilia leaned forward, thoroughly entertained. “Rook, at least let us have a word with Epel before he meets his doom.”

“But of course!”

“HELP ME!” Epel screamed the moment Rook handed him the phone. “Distract them, hex me, I dunno, CURSE ME INTO A TREE OR SOMETHING—”

“Epel,” you said firmly, trying not to laugh, “you’re going to have to face Vil eventually. What’s the worst he could do?”

“THE WORST? Oh, I dunno, exile me to a skincare bootcamp for the rest of my natural life?”

Rook’s voice floated in. “Imagine it, petit pomme: cleansing facials, detoxifying baths, and no more cider mugs. A new you!”

“YOU STAY OUTTA THIS!”

You sighed. “I can offer one thing.”

“Anything!”

“An apology. I suggest you start practicing now.”

“An apology?! I called Vil’s collection overhyped snake oil. I’m DOOMED!”

“Not if you run fast enough,” Rook chimed in cheerfully. “Shall we test your stamina?”

The call ended with Epel’s scream, followed by the distinct sound of someone bolting at full speed.

“Well,” Lilia said, smiling. “That was worth every second.”

Jamil’s voice crackled through the orb strained and absolutely done.

"Hi, yeah, it’s me again."

You rolled your eyes. "Let me guess. Kalim tried to throw a party?"

"And Cater," Jamil growled, the sound of something crashing in the background. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to manage one chaos gremlin? Now imagine two. They’ve cursed half the dorm—random objects are coming to life, and singing. And I don’t mean pleasant singing. I mean like if a banshee and a kazoo had a love child."

Lilia leaned in beside you, eyes glittering with delight. "Oho, this sounds entertaining! What did they do this time?"

Jamil sighed deeply, as if he’d just aged ten years in the past ten minutes. "Kalim thought it would be fun to 'spice up' a party by enchanting the decorations. Cater encouraged him, saying it would make a great Magicam post. The result? The curtains are now tap-dancing, the chandelier won’t stop singing old sea shanties, and the punch bowl tried to bite me."

Lilia clapped his hands. "This sounds like an excellent way to spend the afternoon! Let’s go!"

You groaned. "Why do I have to go?"

"Because you’re the only one who can keep Lilia from making things worse," Jamil deadpanned.

Arriving at Scarabia was like stepping into a fever dream. The furniture was waltzing around the room, the ceiling fan was chanting, "Spin me right round, baby, right round," and the aforementioned punch bowl snarled at you as you walked in.

Kalim, of course, was having the time of his life, clapping to the rhythm of the furniture parade. Cater was filming everything, laughing as he tried to get the chandelier to do a TikTok dance.

"Do you see what I have to deal with?" Jamil hissed, his hair practically frazzled.

"Let’s fix this before someone dies," you muttered, pulling out the anti-curse toolkit Lilia had handed you on the way.

"Or before someone posts this to Magicam and the entire world sees it," Jamil added grimly, glaring at Cater.

It started smoothly enough—well, as smoothly as any curse-breaking session with Lilia could go. The two of you worked to unravel the enchantments while dodging flying pillows and shrieking party streamers.

Then, of course, you made the mistake of touching an enchanted lamp.

It burst into song—loud, off-key, and somehow extremely personal. The lyrics were all about your lack of a love life and questionable fashion choices. Before you could fight back, it tangled itself around your arms and legs, dragging you upward toward the chandelier.

"Hey, uh, Lilia? Little help!"

Lilia, ever the dramatic savior, leaped into action. With a mischievous grin, he sliced through the magical binds with a well-aimed spell and caught you mid-fall.

You blinked up at him, heart hammering in your chest. His crimson eyes glimmered with amusement, his fangs showing in a victorious smirk. He cradled you with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible given his stature.

"You alright there, my dear?" he asked, voice low and teasing.

"Yeah, I’m fine," you muttered, face heating up. "Just…you know…trying not to die."

But your brain wasn’t focusing on that. It was too busy processing the fact that Lilia was holding you like you weighed nothing, and you could feel your pulse quickening. Damn it, why is my heart beating so fast?

He tilted his head, studying you with an unreadable expression. "Are you sure? Your face is a bit flushed."

"Nope! Totally fine!" you squeaked, scrambling out of his arms as soon as your feet touched the ground.

Jamil, watching the whole thing from across the room, rolled his eyes. "Great. Now you’re cursed too."

"Shut up, Jamil."

It took another hour, but the dorm was finally back to normal—or as normal as Scarabia could be. Kalim apologized profusely, Cater promised to delete the footage (he didn’t), and Jamil looked like he might snap at any moment.

As you and Lilia walked out, you tried to calm your racing heart, but he leaned in with a knowing grin.

"Quite the adventure today, wasn’t it?"

"Sure," you replied quickly, hoping your face wasn’t still red.

He hummed thoughtfully. "I wonder what’s got your heart racing so much. You’re not catching feelings for your favorite partner-in-chaos, are you?"

"Not a chance," you lied, your heart betraying you with another treacherous thump.

Lilia just chuckled, and you couldn’t tell if he believed you—or if he was just letting you stew in your own embarrassment for fun.

The enchanted orb buzzed frantically, and you groaned as you reached for it. The second you accepted the call, you heard Deuce.

“HELP! WE MESSED UP BAD!”

“Deuce?” you asked, already dreading the answer. “What did you do this time?”

Jack’s voice came through, exasperated and growly. “It wasn’t just him. I was there too.”

“Great,” you deadpanned. “So, what kind of mess am I cleaning up now?”

Deuce gulped. “We, uh… were practicing some spellwork for exams—”

“Right by the Spelldrive practice field,” Jack added grimly.

Your eyes widened. “Please don’t tell me you—”

“Destroyed the field? Yeah,” Deuce admitted miserably. “But we didn’t mean to! The explosion was an accident!”

You heard a sharp, angry voice in the background: “AN ACCIDENT?! YOU DESTROYED HALF THE FIELD, YOU LITTLE—”

“Leona’s there?” you asked, already standing up.

Deuce nodded frantically. “He’s so mad. Please come before he kills us!”

“Stay put,” you said, grabbing your things. “And pray he doesn’t finish you off before we get there.”

The Spelldrive practice field was a warzone. One goalpost was completely obliterated, sand smoldered in random patches across the ground, and an entire section of the bleachers looked like it had been hit by a tornado.

Leona was standing in the middle of the chaos, arms crossed, glaring daggers at Deuce and Jack, who were huddled behind a tipped-over bench like it could save them. His team stood a safe distance away, clearly too smart to get involved.

You arrived with Lilia in tow, who was already grinning like he’d just stumbled upon the most entertaining show of the year.

“Oh, this is delightful,” Lilia mused, surveying the carnage. “It’s like an abstract painting of destruction.”

“Not helping,” you muttered, jogging toward the scene.

Leona’s sharp green eyes locked onto you. “Finally. You gonna fix this mess, or do I get to turn these two into sandbags?”

“Leona,” you said, stepping between him and the disaster twins, “We’ll handle it. Just… don’t murder them. Yet.”

Leona snorted. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Lilia hummed a jaunty tune as he began waving his hands over the destroyed sections of the field. Slowly, the sand settled, the goalpost reformed, and the bleachers stopped looking like they’d gone through a blender.

Meanwhile, you kept Leona from pouncing on Deuce and Jack, who were watching Lilia work with wide eyes.

“You two better hope I don’t find out about another ‘accident,’” Leona growled, looming over you.

“Relax,” you said, holding up a hand. “They’re idiots, not criminals. Save your energy for your team.”

Leona rolled his eyes but stepped back, muttering something about “babysitters.”

When everything was finally back in order, Lilia dusted off his hands with a satisfied smile. “That was quite fun. We should let those two cause chaos more often.”

You shot him a look. “Please don’t encourage them.”

Leona, arms crossed and clearly annoyed, stepped closer. “You’re done? Good. I’ll send Ruggie with something to pay you later.” Then he smirked, eyes flicking between you and Lilia. “Now keep your lovesick asses away from my practice field.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha—?! Lovesick?”

Leona just walked off with a lazy wave, leaving you standing there, half-mortified.

Lilia leaned in, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Oh my. He really has a way with words, doesn’t he?”

“Don’t you start,” you muttered, your face burning.

But when you turned to walk away, Lilia was by your side, chuckling softly. He caught your wrist gently, pulling you to a stop for just a moment. “For what it’s worth,” he said, voice quieter and more serious, “you were quite impressive back there, keeping Leona from turning them into mincemeat.”

Your heart did a flip. “Uh… thanks?”

He let go with a grin, stepping back and returning to his usual playful tone. “Now, let’s see if we can avoid the next disaster, hmm?”

You weren’t sure if your face would ever cool down.

Potions class with the first-year gang was never uneventful. Today was no exception. The room smelled faintly of burnt caramel as Grim waved his tiny paws at Ace, who was leaning smugly on the table.

“I told you not to put that in!” Grim yelped.

“I barely touched it!” Ace shot back.

“It doesn’t matter who did it!” Sebek barked, slamming his hands on the table. “What matters is that our potion is—”

“About to blow,” Jack growled, pointing to the cauldron bubbling ominously.

“Wait—WHAT?!” you yelped, but it was too late.

The cauldron erupted, spraying a shimmering pink mist over everyone. The class erupted into chaos as Sebek shouted about “inferior techniques,” Epel coughed dramatically like he was dying, and Deuce tried (and failed) to douse the sparks with his coat.

You, unfortunately, caught the brunt of the potion to the face.

You thought the effects were mild at first—just a faint warmth in your chest and the echo of the sugary-sweet scent in your nose. But when you sat down at lunch with Lilia and Malleus, the symptoms became impossible to ignore.

Lilia was chatting animatedly, laughing at his own jokes and waving his fork in the air, while Malleus nodded thoughtfully. But you weren’t hearing a word.

Your brain had decided that the only thing worth focusing on was how kissable Lilia’s lips looked.

Wait, what?

You shook your head, trying to clear it, but it only got worse. Now you were noticing how nice his voice was. And his smile. And the way his hand brushed yours when he passed the salt—

Oh, no.

“Child of man,” Malleus said, pulling you from your internal meltdown, “you seem… distracted.”

You blinked rapidly. “Uh. Yeah. Distracted. Totally fine. Definitely not—uh—totally infatuated with Lilia or anything.”

Lilia looked up, smirking. “Oh? How flattering.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “IT’S THE POTION!”

Malleus watched you pace back and forth in the hallway, his expression somewhere between amused and curious.

“You have to fix me,” you begged, grabbing his shoulders. “This has to be the potion talking. There’s no way I just—randomly—started thinking about Lilia like that!”

Malleus tilted his head, his eyes studying you intently. “You truly believe you are under an enchantment?”

“Yes! Of course!” You gestured wildly. “I mean, it’s Lilia! He’s my partner in crime! He’s—he’s—”

“Kissable?” Malleus offered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Your hands dropped to your sides. “You are so not helping.”

He stepped closer, his presence calm but commanding, and placed a hand on your shoulder. “Very well, child of man. Allow me to assess your condition.”

Malleus leaned forward, his magic swirling faintly around him as he studied you with eerie precision.

After a moment, he straightened, folding his arms. “The potion you were exposed to was a failure. Its intended effects are nonexistent.”

You froze. “What are you saying?”

Malleus raised an eyebrow. “I am saying that you are not under a spell. Your feelings are entirely your own.”

You stared at Malleus in horror.

“So… you’re telling me… I’m not cursed?”

“Precisely.”

“And this… this whole… wanting to kiss Lilia thing…” You paused, voice dropping to a mortified whisper. “That’s just me?”

Malleus nodded sagely. “Indeed.”

You covered your face with your hands. “No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

Lilia’s voice drifted from the next room. “Are you done conspiring with Malleus, beastie? Lunch is getting cold!”

You peeked through your fingers at Malleus, who looked like he was thoroughly enjoying your suffering.

“Good luck, child of man,” he said, patting your shoulder.

You groaned. “I’m going to die.”

And yet, as you returned to the table and sat down next to Lilia, who greeted you with his usual teasing grin, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

You didn’t think it could get any worse than being late for class, but that was before Grim decided to experiment with potions unsupervised. Now, you and Lilia were sprinting through the halls of NRC, dodging a cursed army of flying spoons.

“I told Grim not to use the potions lab as a snack bar!” you gasped, barely ducking as a spoon zoomed past your head with terrifying precision.

Lilia, running beside you, was grinning like this was the most fun he’d had all week. “I must admit, this is an impressive level of chaos. Even I wouldn’t have thought to curse cutlery!”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” you panted, grabbing his arm as another wave of spoons turned the corner. “Hide!”

The two of you dove behind a nearby tapestry, pressing against the wall as the spoons zipped past, their metallic clinking fading into the distance.

For a moment, it was quiet—except for the pounding of your heart.

Your breathing slowly steadied, but your heart didn’t. Not when Lilia was so close, his eyes gleaming with excitement and his cheeks flushed from the chase.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lilia,” you blurted, voice trembling but determined, “I’m in love with you.”

Lilia blinked, his surprise evident for a split second before a soft smile curved his lips. “Ah, I see. Was it the spoons that gave me away, or my undeniable charm?”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m serious!”

He chuckled, gently pulling your hands away to meet your eyes. “So am I. I’ve felt the same for quite some time.”

Your breath hitched. “Really?”

“Really,” he murmured, leaning closer. His lips brushed yours, soft and fleeting, but it sent your heart racing like you were being chased by a thousand cursed spoons.

He pulled back, his grin mischievous. “Now, let’s survive this first date, shall we?”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you from your hiding spot just as the spoons began circling back like a swarm of metallic bees.

“Run!”

You laughed despite yourself, sprinting hand-in-hand with Lilia as the chaos erupted around you once more.

And yet, as you glanced at him—his hair wild, his smile unshakable, his fingers warm around yours—you couldn’t help but think:

I want this forever.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia x reader #lilia x you #lilia twst #lilia vanrouge #lilia

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yamumsyadadd · 3 days ago

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the forgotten girl (2)

posted originally on my old account. will be posting twice weekly :)

Amelia Scott-Higgins was a person a lot of people looked up too. The winner of the 2019 Ballon d’Or who was just 21 at the time. She was an inspiration on and off the field, so you can imagine everyone’s shock when she disappeared. Only a few know the gruesome details of her injuries, and those happen to be Barcelona players Lucy Bronze and Keira Walsh. Alexia Putellas had always admired her, as a person and a player.

“Do you think we could convince her to join us? We need a striker and she is the best!” Jana excitedly said to Alexia, Mapi and Ingrid as they walked into the locker room.

“No, she was the best. Past tense.” Ingrid said.

“Ale you could totally convince her! You guys were friends no?” Jana’s words were loud through the quiet locker room.

“Who are you convincing?” The English accent through the Spanish was still very clear to this day and unmistakably came from Lucy.

“Amelia Scott-Higgins! She’s living in Barcelona and Ale used to be her friend! We need her Luce!”

“No. Understand what I am about to say. No one here is to contact Milly and ask her to play. No one is to ask her to come to a game or to hang out. She has been through enough and you will all leave her the hell alone.” Keira spoke extremely firmly. No one has heard her talk like that before.

“Kei, come on they don’t know.”

“That’s exactly right Lucy. They don’t know. You all think she’s this amazing footballer and want her to play, but she went through some fucked up shit. She doesn’t want to play, she doesn’t want to watch. She wants to be left alone so that’s exactly what everyone is going to do: leave her alone.” The locker door slammed as Keira left. She would protect Amelia now, since she couldn’t before.

Before it all happened, Keira, Leah and Amelia were inseparable. The group was formed at a football event the first year Amelia moved over to the UK, in 2014, at just 16 years old. Emily played with Man City, alongside Keira, Lucy and Georgia. Despite playing at different clubs, they always made time for each other. The unlikely friendship with Alexia Putellas started in 2017, after both signing with Nike and having to do a campaign. Both girls were socially awkward, they sat in silence for most the day until Alexia invited Amelia to dinner. From there on out, they were very close friends.

Alexia struggled with the fame, Amelia did not. She was able to offer advice to Alexia, sharing ways to keep relationships private, or how to compartmentalise. Alexia didn’t even get a text off of Amelia when it all happened. She had flown to England to attend the funeral. A numb, bruised and bandaged shell of a friend stood before them all.

“You knew Amelia?” Olga asked quietly over dinner the night after their run in.

“Yeah. I knew both Amelia and Emily.” The sadness evident in Alexia’s voice.

“Why’d she quit? I googled her. She won the Ballon d’Or and UEFAs best player. What happened?”

“Her wife was murdered and she was hurt. I don’t even think I can begin to explain the type of player she was. She was easily the best player the world has ever seen. No matter what, she worked hard. She cared, if a person got hurt you’d know because Amelia was there first. After her opponents lost, she wouldn’t celebrate her win, she’d go around and tell them everything they did well, hug them and let them cry. I went to the funeral, she was just a shell. Covered in bruises and bandages, in a wheelchair. Then she just vanished. On the first anniversary of Emily’s death, she deleted every single social media she had, changed her number and quit football. I hadnt seen her since, apparently Keira and Lucy hadn’t either.”

“that’s a lot for one person to go through. Where are her parents?”

“Doesn’t have any. They died when she was little, from what she shared she was in foster care in Australia until they let her come to the UK”

“Maybe you should invite her for dinner? She could use a friend.”

“No. YOU should invite her. You’re someone who she doesn’t know and you two seemed to hit it off.”

Olga didn’t tell Alexia, or anyone for that matter, but Amelia had followed her on instagram that night after they met. Seemingly on a private, almost anonymous account. Olga had no plans to force Amelia back into football or back into Alexia’s life, but the more she learnt the more she wanted to ensure she wasn’t alone in this world.

Every morning, Alexia would run along the beach. It was usually quiet and calm since Spain generally didn’t wake up until later in the morning. Every morning, she would watch the same surfer. Scars scattered on her legs, one long scar from the back of her hip, across her torso. Alexia knew it was Amelia, but she never stopped to say hello, not until that morning.

The morning that would change things.

#alexia x reader #fcb femení #woso fanfics #mapi león #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso community #ingrid engen #keira walsh x lucy bronze #lucy bronze x reader #lucy bronze #keira walsh x reader #keira walsh #claudia pina #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas imagine

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mybworlds · 3 days ago

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Fathoms below

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Warnings: use of you, you’re a mermaid, I won't give any details except for nice long legs and very long hair, nudity, violence (a little?), use of both pov. If I missed smt please let me know.

Summary: Marcus Acacius is a fighter and a conqueror, he's returning to Rome when a mysterious girl saves him from a shipwreck.

Masterlist

A/N New story, new (?) characters, I hope you like it as much as I do and if you don't like it, please be merciful. Likes, comments and reblogs are not mandatory, but very appreciated! ❤️ Have you seen Gladiator II? What do you think? I'm quite disappointed, if you want we can talk about it in a separate post.

follow @mybworlds and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Taglist @harriedandharassed; @orcasoul; @blazeflays; @ijustlovemensm; @duck-duck-goose2

Thx for the dividers @saradika-graphics.

His whole life has been on a battlefield. His skin is now dark from all the dust soaked in sweat and spilled blood, his skin burned under the scorching sun. His hair a mass perpetually disheveled by the wind, by the many battles won over the years.

Marcus Acacius is the general of the Roman army, the most intelligent, the most ruthless. His hands are now a perpetual red, too many lives had been taken by his sword, no matter how many baths he takes and the considerable amount of perfumes and oils used, the battle is a part of him.

The battles faced in Numidia and Egypt had contributed to the extension of the glory and power of Rome. Acacius, after his last victory, is ordered to return to Rome where he would be celebrated and would have the great honor of becoming one of the most important men in Rome.

What the emperors order, the general performs. No matter how brutal or inhumane it is, he obeys. He doesn't always love what he does, sometimes it is senseless. But in Rome he could never say no, no one can.

Once, at the end of one of his many military campaigns, Acacius is on the coast of Sicily with his men — the province of Sicily was the first to be created and an important land of meetings and trade for the glory of Rome. He has just finished yet another campaign and cannot help but think of how many men have been killed at the whim of two mad emperors.

Acacius only follows orders, but he can't take it anymore. He fights, he kills, sometimes he takes prisoners if that's what he's ordered to do, sometimes not. He doesn't care about glory or having statues dedicated to him, he just wants some peace for himself and his life. He’d like to live peacefully at least for a while, “General!” one of his subordinates calls him back to reality “We are ready for interrogation.” he sighs before joining his men.

That day, the General has to interrogate one of the prisoners to find out if they’re plotting against the empire, the man's face is desperate. Acacius, even if he doesn't fully understand their language, can clearly see the fear in the man's eyes. He speaks and asks what they are organizing against Rome, but the only words are "mercy, I know nothing", he looks at him and the more he looks at him the more he feels disgusted by all this. At yet another futile attempt to learn something from him, his subordinate kills him.

Acacius looks at him shocked and completely incredulous, “He wouldn't have said anything anyway.” the other justifies his action.

He’s about to reply when a noise catches his attention and then two frightened eyes catch him, then he sees you fleeing. Your gait is awkward almost as if you’re in some kind of pain.

Without raising the alarm of an intruder in the camp, he walks away from the scene of the murder and starts following you into the woods with his trusty dagger still in his hand. He knows, in fact, that you could be a bait and that you could be used to lure him away from his men.

“Stop.” he shouts at you “Don’t run away!” he adds.

You stop and look at him, your gaze still terrified as if you’ve a monster before you. Marcus Acacius has long seen himself as a dog faithful to his masters, always ready to obey no matter what, even if his actions were monstrous enough to make him feel like a monster.

He looks around for the presence of other men who were lurking around there ready to attack him, but the nature around them doesn’t suggest the presence of other people except them.

Your gaze is still terrified, however you don’t stop looking into Acacius' eyes, feeling as if he’s being scrutinized in the depths of his tormented soul.

Then a completely unexpected gesture, you touch his face. Your skin is cold as sea water, “You’re freezing, are you okay?” he asks you, jumping at the unexpected cold on that hot summer day.

You look at him confused, “Where are you from?” he asks you curiously.

But your look is confused, “You don't understand me, do you? ¿De dónde es? Waar kom jy vandaan?” Acacius tries to establish contact with you, but with the result that you shake your head and look at him, both surprised and curious at the same time.

He puts away his dagger and raises his hands in surrender, “Sorry, if I scared you,” he tells you.

Oh, if his subordinates had heard that, they would have called him a wimp!

There’s something about you, something terribly beautiful and terrifying at the same time. Your beauty is unmatched and yet the General had met all sorts of women, but none as beautiful as you are.

Then, you both look at each other for a long, silent look before you start caressing his face with both hands, who knows if you want to tell him something and he doesn’t understand what you want to tell him!

Acacius finds himself closing his eyes in a moment of total abandon, something he had never allowed himself to do before. Because of his role, he could never let his guard down, he always have to be vigilant and wary, but at that moment he doesn’t even know why he feels so captivated by you, a mysterious girl.

Your touch is so gentle it almost sends shivers down his spine and for a moment he feels like he's in the right place at the right time where no war or duty calls him back to his place, he feels an absolute peace even if it lasts until you move your hands away and he opens his eyes again.

Your eyes are a mixture of confusion, fear, curiosity and beauty. Acacius wants to do the same thing you did with him, but then he thinks that maybe you would have been afraid and you would have run away.

“What’s your name?” he asks again, hoping that your name comes out of your lips, the name of a girl who seems to have hypnotized him.

You look at him again, opening your lips slightly as if to speak to him, but no sound comes out of your mouth.

Are you mute?

His expression softens and a faint smile curves his lips. You imitate his expression, “I have to go now.” he tells you slowly in the hope that you could understand and taking a step back.

Oh, how much he’d have given to stay and not have to return to Rome, he knows what awaits him!

You too move away from him, lowering your gaze for a moment and then looking up again.

After a last silent glance, everyone goes their own way. Who knows if you live there!

The next day, Marcus, much to his embarrassment, was gifted a new marble statue as a result of his latest conquest for the Empire. It’s beautiful and the sculptor seems to know him very well since he managed to depict in detail every single wrinkle and war scar. He thanks the man, but deep down he doesn't feel comfortable taking that gift with him, but he can't refuse it either as it would mean offending the sculptor.

A few weeks later, he's on the ship headed to Rome. Acacius had thought about you several times, but without finding you, and yet there aren’t many villages in the surrounding area and he finds himself very disappointed at not being able to at least say goodbye to you before returning to his home. The General is near the bow of the ship, reading important documents in which his last enterprise is documented, when there’s a strange splashing sound that takes his focus off from the papyrus. Marcus looks up from his papers and walks over to the railing. Nothing special except some ripples and probably a few dolphins here and there.

The Sun dips into the waters of the Mediterranean Sea, when the man goes to sleep. Despite his tiredness, he can't sleep because on the one hand he’s happy to return home and live his city again, but on the other he knows that with this his latest victory, the emperors will force him to marry some domina. And Marcus knows that, although he's a man and enjoys certain freedoms, in the end he will have to give in and marry so as to contribute to the birth of other powerful men who will contribute to the glory of Rome.

The man must have fallen asleep because suddenly he feels a jolt to the ship, he gets up with difficulty staggering from one side to the other. The sea is definitely stormy. When he leaves his quarters, his men are screaming for mercy from the god Neptune. The waves reach the deck, wetting everything and everyone, and the ship rocks more and more violently.

“General, we’re lost!” someone shouts “We’re still too far from Rome and we can’t even go back! This will be our tomb.”

Although he wants to encourage his men, the situation is truly desperate. The waves are crashing onto the deck with great violence, wetting everyone, and the sky is torn by flashes of lightning. Then, everything changes for the worse in a few moments, a lightning struck the mainmast which breaks and catch fire. Some men throw themselves into the sea in desperation, others remain clinging everywhere could. General Acacius is hit in the head by bow mast and ends up in the water.

The man doesn’t even know how he doesn’t faint after receiving that strong blow to the head and tries to surface despite the high waves, but his clothes and the fury of the sea don’t help him at all. He begins to drink saltwater and drown in the depths of the sea, when something seems to grab him and drag him away. The man faints.

When Marcus regains consciousness, he feels the gravel and the sand of the coast beneath him. He opens his eyes, barely raising his head, he feels overwhelmed and confused, when he sees a girl — that same girl, you — next to him, he's about to say something, but you place a finger on his lips, your skin is soft and cold as he remembered it, you look at him with a pleading and worried look, you smile at him as if you are happy to know he’s safe and after looking into his eyes again as if to make sure he's okay, Marcus watches you go away and disappear into the waves. A few moments later a fishtail appears where you disappeared.

It can't be!

No one can understand how much you love the world above the surface, the sun, the wind, you love every sound that comes from it.

You are a mermaid, but you want so much to live up there.

You are looking out more and more often, running the risk of being seen by humans. According to your father, they are the worst creatures in the world, always hostile and destructive to each other and to you. But not according to your aunt, Mira, she loves humans and in fact she encourages you to go up and explore the terrestrial world.

When you were still a baby, you went up to the surface with her. It was your first time and you loved every moment, at least until a galley almost saw you and this led to a furious argument between the two brothers which then led to Mira exile.

From that day on, your father prevented you not only from seeing her, but also from imitating her. You should never have come to the surface again.

You obeyed, at least until the renewed curiosity towards the surface and humans came back forcefully to make its way inside you and since then you’ve started secretly collecting everything related to the human world, they are so beautiful, they do so many wonderful things and they write so much. One day you’ll learn to read in their language, maybe you can ask your aunt Mira for help, she knows a lot of things.

You mostly come up to the surface in the evening or at night, this is because it's the safest moment not only because your father isn't around, but also because you are less likely to be seen by humans.

And that evening is no exception even though there is a strong wind and the currents are quite strong even down there in your world. It's one of those days, that humans call summer, the first time you see him.

In the evening you like to watch what your aunt explained to you is called Moon reflected in the waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The water becomes so bright on the surface that creates a strange play of light. That summer evening, you surface cautiously and very carefully, looking left and right, you come out of the water. Your beautiful fish tail gradually disappears as you surface and is replaced by nice long legs.

Your aunt had explained to you that this magic happens for you mermaids. You can go up to the surface, but you can't stay there for long. Magic always comes with a price, she told you. In fact, if it was possible to have legs, then you would also feel great pain in having them.

Effectively, your legs always hurt a little and it's not always pleasant to walk on them, but walking on the ground makes up for that pain. You immediately notice a small group of men at a certain distance, they seem to be soldiers from the way they are dressed. Your aunt Mira told you everything about them, even though she always warned you not to get close to them because it's too dangerous. Watch them from afar, but never get close to them, these were your aunt's words. But you want to touch them, see them, talk to them. It can't be that they are just murderers like your daddy says.

Your father told you that humans are always fighting among themselves, always ready to kill each other, to hurt each other, to prevail over each other and he once told you about a large group of humans wandering around from one corner of the sea to the other who does nothing but crave power and claim their dominion over that territory. Mira told you that when they don't live in their beautiful houses, they move from one place to another and use tents to sleep and several tents together form a camp.

Oh, it must be wonderful to move on ships or living in beautiful houses like the ones you've seen in the books you keep in a little nook away from everything and everyone!

You see many tents in the distance, so you know that further ahead there are many humans around. You look around you cautiously, close your eyes and strain your ears: there are some who speak of something and others who say something else, someone silence someone else and others are making strange thudding noises.

You open your eyes and step out of the water completely. After a few steps you turn toward the sea and see your home from the human perspective: a mass of dark water tossed by the wind. You turn around and look for something to cover yourself, you are completely naked and you aren’t sure if humans go around like that.

After getting dressed, you move silently and approach those voices that are gradually becoming louder and louder.

Then, you see him: a man with a grim and sharp look, his eyes are dark and he looks at the man at his feet with a serious expression. The kneeling man is shaking and says something you don’t understand, but the man in front of him continue to stare at him coldly, then someone behind the man with the cold gaze, approaches with something in his hands that has every appearance of being something dangerous. In a few seconds something happens that you never thought you'd see: the third man with that stuff in his hands, quickly approaches the kneeling man and hit him with that same item he has in his hands. The man falls on his side almost screaming, you open your eyes wide, amazed and scared at the same time by the speed of the gesture and by that dull scream emitted by the man on the ground who doesn’t move anymore.

You look at the cold-eyed man and the third man, the first one has an annoyed tone of voice towards the other one who in turn answers with great speed. Who knows what they are saying to each other!

Then, you look back at the man on the ground and only then you notice what what appears to be blood. You’ve seen enough, it's time to go back. But as you step back, you step on something that catch the eye of the cold-looking man who turns his head in your direction. Your eyes meet for the first time and you feel a strange sensation that make you run away quickly in the same direction you’ve taken to reach that field.

You can't run as your legs still hurt too much. A burning disappointment spread in your chest, maybe your father is right about humans and your aunt is wrong. You’ve almost reached the beach, when you hear the same voice behind you. His voice isn’t cold this time, he seems surprised. You don’t understand what he's telling you, it's the first time you hear a human speak. It's a strange language theirs, but for some reason, even though you don’t understand anything he's saying, you turn around towards him and his dark eyes almost freeze you in place as if he has cast a spell on you.

His voice don’t seem to be threatening at that moment, yet you see and hear how he addressed the others, who is the man in front of you? You press yourself against a tree behind you with a frightened look. You see him put away what he has in his hands and lift them up as if to reassure you, he speaks to you, his tone of voice is calm. It gives you the shivers. He starts to come towards you, approaching with a slow pace, you want to run away, but your legs don’t seem to respond to your desire to escape.

He's telling you something, his voice is warm and peaceful. Beautiful, almost musical. It reminds you of the echo that seashells produce on windy days. It's a nice sound, but it makes you shiver. He's now one step away from you, his eyes are so dark. His stained face has a strange color, his skin color is so unique.

You find yourself reaching out to his face, his first reaction is to pull away and you pull your hand away in fear of his response. Then, he seems to relax and you stretch out your hand again.

His skin is a little damaged and warm to the touch, tingling where his beard is, you graze the outline of his lips and face with your fingertips, then follow the line of a scar under his eye as if to memorize every detail of him. Humans are so beautiful, so fascinating. You want to tell him he's beautiful, but you don’t know how.

Then, something inexplicable happens: by touching him you can feel and see what he saw, he really saw so much. How much blood he shed and how many people he saw, how many he argued with, talked with, you can even sense his deep torment, you feel even more curious about him now!

You look him straight in the eyes for a long time and he looks back at you in silence. For a moment the air seems to hang between you two, then you wake up from that spell and withdrew your hands.

He speaks to you so sweetly that you almost have trouble associating him with that man with the cold, authoritative look from earlier and the bloody memories you somehow saw. His eyes have a hint of sadness that contradicts his fury in battle.

Maybe he’s not happy doing what he does!

You'd like to tell him that he's beautiful and at the same time how beautiful and complicated human nature is, but you don't know how to tell him. You wish you could talk to him, understand him.

Then, he talks to you again, walking away from you and you realize he's leaving. You didn't want him to leave, but you can't force him and then now more than ever you want to know everything about humans, their culture, how they live, but above all you want to know what he will do, where he will go.

You do the same thing without ever leaving those dark eyes that in the light seem to be the color of the sandy bottoms of your home.

When you are sure he’s gone, you slowly reach the shoreline. You turn in the direction you came from and think back to that human, Marcus Acacius. You were very struck by how he hides his torment behind that almost cold and authoritarian mask. He’s such a fascinating creature.

You smile as you think back to what the human — Marcus — has seen and done, oh how you wish you could see some of the many things he sees, experience them with him. It would be incredibly fascinating.

You stay there for a while, then when the wind ripples the surface of the sea, you understand it's time to go. You place the soles of your feet in the water and at that moment a sensation of trembling mixed with cold spreads inside you, a sharp, painful sensation jolts you and runs through your legs, then gives way to an almost giving way feeling in your legs. You end up falling forward and at that moment you no longer feel your nice long legs, but your tail again. You drag yourself through the water until your tail is completely submerged and you can dive back into the depths of the sea.

Oh, you want to talk to your aunt Mira, you want to ask her if she knows of a way to get you to stay on the surface longer.

In the days that follow, you often return to the surface, barely peeking out of the water just to see him, you often see him on the beach, sometimes you see him sharpening what you’ve learned to be a dagger, you see him take off his armor and remain on more than one occasion with only a gray tunic and thoughtfully observe the horizon. He looks sad, thoughtful. You wish you could see again what is bothering him so much, you wish you could help him.

You still haven't found the courage to go to your aunt and ask for what's closest to your heart: to become part of his world. You hope your aunt can help you, she knows a lot of things.

Every day now when the sun goes down, you come up to the surface just to see him. One day you see him sitting on a rock a few meters from the shore, you hide because you don't know how to explain to him of your fishtail, he probably wouldn't understand. You see him wearing a wet shirt completely adhered to his body, he’s all intent on washing his hands and arms, they are dirty with what appears to be mud. His hair is wet and his curls are matted and dripping with water, one curl falls untidily on his forehead. His features in the light of the sunset seem to be even more masculine and incredibly beautiful.

You reach out a hand towards his face even if from afar as if you wanted to caress him and at that moment a light wind rises and the man's hair is as if shaken by a tender breeze that leads him to look up towards the horizon and you to hide behind a rocky ridge.

Oh, Marcus..

“I'll find you,” you hear him whisper. It’s one of the first sentences you understand in the human language. In fact, in these days listening to them you have learned a lot and now you are starting to understand something too. You hope he's talking about you, though of course you're not sure.

Days go by and coming to the surface and being with him, even if at a considerable distance, has become a nice habit. You don't even care if your father sees you or not, you go to him. Unfortunately, a galley appears near the coast of the island and you understand that they have come to take the man away from there. Who knows where they're going... maybe if you followed them a little...

You don't regret following him, even if you go really far away from your home, but you don't care at all. You follow the ship at a distance fearing that someone might see you. You’ve been following him for almost three days and you often see him there on the deck. He often stands there staring at the horizon with a thoughtful expression, who knows what he's thinking about.

One day the sky is almost as black as the night sky, the clouds are so dark that they scare you and you are so afraid for him. The wind is so strong and the waves are getting so high that even swimming is difficult for you.

Then, everything changes in an instant. A bolt of lightning strikes the trunk of the ship, which breaks in two and hits Marcus who was not too far from the rail and falls overboard. You rush towards it, the water is so dark that for a moment you can't see anything.

A few moments later a noise reverberates in the sea waters and you see the ship sinking, it’s a disturbing sight. You move with difficulty through the waves, you see many objects that were surely on board end up down, then you see him.

You see him unconscious, whirling in the waves and ending up under. You swim as fast as you can and reach him, grabbing him and making him resurface.

“I’ll save you, don’t be afraid.” You tell him reassuringly, he opens his eyes for a moment and then closes them immediately and abandons himself on you.

You can't quantify the time that passes until you reach dry land. Without thinking that anyone might see the scene, you drag Marcus, still unconscious, to the shore.

You start to feel pain in your fish tail which is a sign that your tail has started to change and turning into legs, but it doesn’t matter now. You drag Marcus until he's almost completely out of the water, his hair is wet and full of sand and gravel, “Please, open your eyes,” you beg him, moving a wet curl that fell on his wet forehead. You look at him and notice his torn robe on his arm, there's a bloody cut and you immediately peel a scale off your tail to heal him.

“You are beautiful, Marcus,” you murmur, looking with a rapt air at his face, so beautiful that it reminds you of the one depicted in a book you have at the bottom of the sea. You caress his face, his burning lips, but this time you can't see anything, perhaps because he is unconscious. You put your head on his chest and you feel him breathing fortunately. Only now you give yourself a moment to relax and smile happily that he’s safe.

A few moments later when he starts to wake up, you lift your head from his chest and at that moment he opens his eyes. He has beautiful eyes, you can't help but smile at him, you murmur "You’ll be fine now, you’re safe.” You quickly let go of him when you hear a chatter approaching.

You leave him so quickly that you don't think he could have seen who you really are.When you are far enough away, you turn around and see him surrounded by a small group of people who have reached him and helped him, "Now you are safe." you repeat to yourself, casting one last glance towards him who never stops looking towards the sea.

You smile one last time before diving back in the bottomless blue of the sea and reaching your home again, but with the promise that you’ll soon return and see him again.