#ii rewrite

[maxphilippa]

Now do, pray tell, share with us what you would've changed to II?

Oh alright- sure!

- The way Test Tube and Fan acted upon Cabby's files. I really don't like them in S3 other than what they had with Bot (but mostly just because I like Bot). It really felt so awful considering that those are her disability aids and meanwhile it is, somewhat in character for them to act like that (Fan acts before he thinks as shown in s2 when he ran back to the game, and Test Tube has a big sense of justice as shown in S2, considering how she treated Mic since she thought she was the one that made a whole mess), they're supposed to be more mature than before at least by how they act in S3. I think that Fan getting that Cabby needs those files and that she genuinely means good but stuggles would have been a great thing- heck! Fan ACTUALLY listening to Cabby and asking her why she wrote those things, and understanding her! And maybe Test Tube ACTUALLY apologizing to Cabby after Cabby rejoins, because she realizes she was fucking awful to her? Instead of making her feel bad about herself? I think that would make things less shitty on the context of Cabby and understanding her.

- Tissues's condition being treated as a joke is something that I really don't like. Meanwhile yes, I get that S2 characters ARE stereotypes, just more polished and given some more development (the best case of this is Microphone), and that AE was still just some teenagers back then (if I'm not wrong), Tissues was literally the first guy that got voted off and that sucked, and his main personality was his condition. And his condition is somehow even worse in the Fan short? At least on symptomps (I do not know how to write the word), making stuff somewhat more difficult, but he at least somehow got better in the end? He's showing that he's getting back his strenght, but I think that treating his condition on a more serious look and still giving him a personality would have been great. Showing that he is slowly getting better (meaning that he is getting a treatment of sorts) is good. But they can do better.

- Bot's & Cabby's scenes in Ep 14.

Meanwhile I did got the intention of "Bot is still struggling with their identity and Cabby is still struggling in general, which isn't a great combo considering that Cabby does need her disability aids and Bot still doesn't know about themselves at all, not wanting to be written down the same way they were written down by Test Tube and Fan", I would have liked to see Bot ACTUALLY communicating properly with Cabby in the episode and telling her about it directly, instead of making Cabby feel so lost and lying to he4. And the 'Bow' File getting destroyed scene would have been different I think? Instead of that happening, Bot helps Cabby getting to the top, and in the end, the only thing that changes is the color of Bot's file and the info probably.

- "Evil"... Paper & Paper.

Now this is one of the most problematic stuffs with the II writing, the bad representation of DID itself and demonizing mental health. It would be fairly easy to write, with research done and such. I would rename Evil Paper to Looseleaf instead. I would also really not just make him... like that? Paper went through such trauma and it affected him a lot. Looseleaf being more of a self defensive guy yet not violent/murderous one at all would be good, wanting to make sure they're safe and okay. I do not know much about DID myself but, let them be headmmates and actually talk about stuff.

- This is more of a general thing but I personally just really like the scrapped idea of Bot being built by Cobs? Heck! Cobs is supposed to BE the main villain! And all we got was Springy! And that guy isn't even confirmed to be built by Cobs! They're not doing many stuff with Cobs and he's such an interesting character.

- Fans VS Favorites. I do like III as a concept, but most of the S2 characters already had their arcs closed and such and I think it would have been better if they used the underveloped characters instead. To give them more personality and growth instead of just silly little comics and such. I would have liked to see Trophy, Tissues, Cheesy AND Soap getting development other than their main stereotypes!

- Soap's Character.

She is... a very boring character to me, personally. I know that AE has said that they were starting to care about Soap and such but it didn't really felt, like she was getting anywhere? Other than her whole thing being a germaphobe? And her addiction with cleaning? She shows to have a strong character when angry! I would have liked to write her on the chiller end and genuinely have more of a story than whatever she has going on now.

- Nickel's and Suitcase relationship.

I know, I know. This isn't meant to say that what Nickel did to Suitcase wasn't bad. But I think that it would have made more sense if the whole relationship didn't feel so... one sided. In friendship terms. Nickel thinks of Suitcase rather fondly despite her "betrayal", and they were friends in a way. But that's the thing. They don't really feel like friends at all- mostly because meanwhile Nickel does care to an degree for her, he still sucks ass at it, and Suitcase was really only hanging out because of Baseball in a way, and their whole thing is SO complicated that I can even make a long analysis on it.

I would have liked to make them actually like eachother. For them to ACTUALLY be good friends before the inevitable downfall. Nickel being there for Suitcase and (terribly) trying to comfort her. Suitcase actually liking Nickel's company and not feeling scared of him. To make Nickel, someone who's emotionally stupid as shit, be at least more sympathetic, but still having his hatred for Balloon take the best of him. To make them actually hang around without needing Baseball to be around.

Nickel is a complicated character and I do think that AE didn't have him figured it out 'till S3. So that's what I would change about him if I could- make him a bit more balanced. Make his yearning for the good old days make more sense. And maybe having him showing regret earlier on.

- Adding an small post-scene ep 14 s2 in which Microphone actually says hi to Pickle. Not a bad thing rewrite but I think it would have done things end on more of an bittersweet note.

There's more stuff I would have changed that's for sure but those are the main points I can think of!

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - SERIES MASTERLIST

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

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

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

Main Song: If There's Nothing Left by NIKI

CONTENTS:

Chapter 1: Be The Light, When All The Lights Go Out Chapter 2: Hold On For Dear Love Chapter 3: Where Passion Meets Insane, Where Pleasure Kisses Pain Chapter 4: Coming Soon!

[steakcreature]

Acceptance

Reunion

[franzkafkagf]

queen PLEASE rewrite the brothel scene so it makes sense I BEG YOU.

Aegon stumbled into the brothel, the dim lighting and the overwhelming scent of cheap perfume and sweat wrapping around him, suffocating him. Martyn, Leon, Eddard, and Rodrick, Martyn’s new squire, followed him. Aegon's own face, flushed and unfocused from too much wine and ale, betrayed a desperate attempt to drown out unwelcome emotions.

“This place is as good as any to get it wet,” Aegon slurred, his arm slung over the squire’s shoulder. The boy, still green behind the ears, looked up at the king with wide, nervous eyes. “Time to make a man out of you, eh?” He punctuated the statement with a bawdy laugh, echoed half-heartedly by his friends.

The brothel was dimly lit, with curtains draped around, each one hiding unique secrets. Aegon staggered forward, yanking aside the first curtain he came to. Behind it, a couple gasped in surprise, but Aegon was already moving on, cursing under his breath. His mind was set on finding a particular woman—a distraction, an escape.

“Her name is Selyse or Selsie… or something like that,” Aegon continued, leaning heavily on the squire. “She’s great. Nothing like that woman’s touch to—hic—to forget your troubles.” His laugh was a bitter bark, masking the hollow ache in his chest.

He flung open another curtain, revealing yet another entangled pair, before stumbling on. Each step heavier than the last, the sounds of pleasure and the stuffy air seemed to close in on him. The sight of flesh and sweat did nothing to ease his mind; he still felt powerless, terribly powerless. King he might be, but even a crown couldn’t shield his family from harm.

Finally, he found her—the woman he sought. But instead of the welcome distraction he craved, he was met with a scene that stopped him cold. She was not alone. In her arms, naked and unashamed, was his brother, Aemond.

Aegon’s vision blurred, he did not know if he should laugh or scream. The room seemed to tilt as he stumbled forward, nearly ripping the curtain down in an attempt to steady himself. "Aemond the Fierce!” he roared. “Look at you!”

Aemond looked up at him, scrambling from the woman’s embrace and standing up to put on a robe. She herself shrank back too, pulling the sheets up to cover herself. The tension in the room was a tangible thing, crackling between the two brothers.

“You see, I do not exaggerate,” Aegon’s eyes flicked to his companions as he stumbled further into the room. His voice had an air of lightness to it—but it carried an undercurrent of anger, deep anger. “Such is the Madam’s prowess, that my brother does not want to sample another.”

“Tell me, brother.” Aegon clapped Aemond on the shoulder, too hard, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Was this where you were? With this whore while my son was being murdered? When Jaehaerys was breathing his last, were you still fucking your very first?”

Aemond’s face darkened, the shadow of guilt flickering across his features before being masked by a cold, defensive anger. “You think I didn't want to be there? You think I don’t wish I could’ve been there to fight off those cowardly assassins? I grieve my nephew too.”

“Grieve?” Aegon’s laughter was hollow and bitter. “If you hadn’t been busy killing Rhaenyra’s bastard, she’d never have sought retribution. If you’d been able to behave yourself, my son would still be alive!”

Aemond’s eye flashed with rage, but the truth in Aegon’s words was undeniable. “What of you, brother? Where were you? Drowning yourself in strongwine and whores—why didn’t you protect your son?” Aemond was facing his brother head-on now; years of resentment and anger finally flooding out of him. “You’re just as much at fault as I am. You’re a wastrel, Aegon, a weak and unworthy king.”

Aegon's face contorted with fury, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He remembered Larys’ words from before, could it truly be? Was his own brother planning to overthrow him?

“Plotting to take my crown, are you? Is that what this is all about?”

Aemond scoffed, “you think I want your crown? You can hardly keep it on your own head.”

Aegon saw red. His fist shot out before he could think, landing squarely on Aemond’s jaw. The force of the blow sent his brother staggering back. The woman yelped, scrambling off the bed, desperate to get away from the two.

Aemond seemed shocked for a moment before he launched himself at his brother. “You’ve always been a coward,” he shouted as the two tumbled to the ground in a flurry of fists and curses. “Hiding behind your whores and your wine!”

Aegon’s punches were wild and uncoordinated as he struck his brother again and again. “And you’ve always been a viper, waiting for your chance to strike!” His fist connected to Aemond’s ribs.

“You think I don’t suffer?” Aemond growled, landing a punch to Aegon’s side. “You think this is easy for me?”

The fight was brutal, raw, and undignified. It would have been embarrassing if it wasn't so profoundly sad—two brothers, driven by grief and guilt, lashing out at the only target they had left.

Martyn, unable to continue watching, forced his way between them. “Enough! Both of you, enough!” he shouted, pushing them apart with all his strength. “Calm down!”

Aegon struggled against Martyn’s grip, eager to keep fighting. “He’s a traitor, Martyn! A traitor!”

Aemond, chest heaving, wrenched free from Martyn’s grasp. “You're a fool, Aegon,” he spat before turning and striding away, leaving the room behind.

Aegon swayed on his feet, the room beginning to spin. His stomach churned, and he felt bile rise in his throat. With a groan, he doubled over and vomited onto the cushions.

Martyn knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come, Your Grace,” he said, helping Aegon to his feet. “Let’s get you out of here.”

[andy-15-07]

Reunion of love

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader

Word Count: 1335

warnings: a little smut

The night was calm, a rare blessing amidst the chaos of war. The air carried the gentle hum of cicadas and the faint, fragrant aroma of blooming jasmine. The garden, bathed in moonlight, glowed with an ethereal radiance. Amidst the neatly trimmed hedges and the scattered marble statues, Y/N lingered in quiet contemplation, her thoughts a mix of longing and relief.

General Marcus Acacius, her husband, had been away for months, leading the legions of Rome in battle. News of his victories had reached her weeks ago, yet the uncertainty of war always lingered in her heart. Tonight, however, there was a strange anticipation in the air, a tug in her spirit that refused to let her retire to their chambers.

She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and gazed at the night sky, the constellations shining like scattered diamonds. A soft rustle came from the shadows behind her. Y/N turned sharply, her heart skipping a beat.

“Who goes there?” she called, her voice steady but wary.

From the shadows emerged a figure she would recognize anywhere. Marcus stood tall, his armor glinting faintly in the moonlight, his face rugged and worn yet undeniably handsome. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and the shadow of a beard framed his chiseled jawline. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who had faced death and emerged victorious, but his eyes softened the moment they met hers.

“Did I frighten you, my love?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips.

Y/N’s breath hitched. For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Then, as the realization sank in, she rushed toward him, her shawl slipping from her shoulders. Marcus opened his arms, and she threw herself into his embrace, the weight of months of separation dissolving in an instant.

“Marcus,” she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. “You’re home.”

“I am,” he murmured, holding her tightly. “And I intend never to leave your side again, not unless duty demands it.”

She pulled back slightly, her hands resting on his chest. “You’re safe?” Her eyes searched his face, looking for any sign of injury.

“I am,” he assured her. “The gods have seen fit to bring me back to you in one piece.”

Y/N smiled, though tears glistened in her eyes. “The gods must favor me, then.”

Marcus cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “No, my love. They favor me, for they have given me you.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a moment to savor the warmth of his hands. When she opened them, her smile had deepened, and her voice was playful. “You should have sent word of your arrival. I would have prepared a feast fit for the victor of Rome.”

“And miss the chance to surprise you?” he teased. “Never.”

He bent his head and kissed her, a kiss that spoke of longing, love, and promises unspoken. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them under the watchful gaze of the stars.

When they finally parted, Y/N took his hand and led him to a stone bench near the fountain. They sat together, the cool night air wrapping around them like a gentle embrace.

“Tell me,” she said softly. “Tell me everything. How was the campaign? How do you fare?”

Marcus hesitated for a moment, then began to speak. He recounted the battles he had fought, the strategies that had brought victory, and the lives lost along the way. His voice was steady, but there was a weight to his words, a heaviness that spoke of the toll war had taken on him.

Y/N listened intently, her hand never leaving his. When he finished, she squeezed his hand and said, “You carry the burden of Rome, but you need not carry it alone. You have me, Marcus. Always.”

He looked at her, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I know,” he said. “And it is your love that gives me strength.”

They sat in silence for a while, the sound of the fountain mingling with the whispers of the night. Then, Marcus stood and held out his hand.

“Come,” he said. “Let us not waste this night. I have been away from you for far too long.”

Y/N took his hand, her heart fluttering. He led her through the garden, their footsteps light on the cobblestone paths. They paused by a marble pavilion, its columns entwined with ivy. There, under the canopy of the heavens, Marcus pulled her into his arms once more.

“I dreamt of this moment,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “Of holding you, of hearing your voice, of seeing your smile. The battlefield is no place for dreams, but you were my constant solace.”

Y/N placed a hand on his cheek, her touch tender. “And you were mine,” she replied. “Every day, I prayed for your safe return. Now that you’re here, it feels as if the world has righted itself.”

They shared another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate, a melding of souls that spoke of their unbreakable bond. His hands roamed her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The intensity of the moment made her gasp softly against his lips, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, his tongue exploring hers with a hunger born of months of yearning.

“Marcus,” she whispered when they finally broke apart, her cheeks flushed and her breath shallow. “Take me somewhere we won’t be disturbed.”

He needed no further invitation. Without a word, he swept her into his arms, carrying her through the garden toward their chambers. Her laughter, soft and melodic, mingled with the rustle of leaves as he quickened his pace.

Once inside, the door closed behind them with a quiet thud, sealing them in a world of their own. Marcus set her down gently, his eyes roaming her form with a gaze so heated it made her shiver. He began to unfasten his armor, the clang of metal filling the room as piece by piece fell away, revealing the powerful physique beneath. His scars told stories of battles fought, but to Y/N, they only made him more captivating.

She stepped closer, her hands moving to help him, her fingers brushing against his skin. “You’re more beautiful than I remember,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

He caught her hands and brought them to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “And you, my love, have haunted my every thought.”

Their movements became slower, more deliberate, as they undressed each other. Each touch, each kiss, was a rediscovery, a celebration of their love. When they finally came together, it was with an intensity that left no room for doubt or hesitation. His hands explored her curves reverently, his lips worshipping every inch of her skin. She responded in kind, her touch igniting flames wherever it lingered, her whispered declarations of love weaving into the heady atmosphere of their union.

They moved together in perfect harmony, a dance as old as time, their passion building to a crescendo that left them both trembling. Marcus held her tightly as they reached the peak of their love, his whispered praises and endearments filling her ears.

When the storm finally subsided, they lay tangled in each other’s arms, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts beating as one. Marcus brushed a strand of hair from her face and gazed down at her with an intensity that made her heart ache.

“You are my everything, Y/N,” he murmured. “My reason for fighting, my reason for living. I am nothing without you.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she cupped his cheek. “And you are mine, Marcus. You’ve always been mine.”

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, they remained entwined, their love a sanctuary against the trials of the world. For this moment, they were free, and nothing else mattered but the bond they shared.

[rewritingcanon]

tell me two facts about yourself and i’ll give you a hp next gen character

[zyn0nn]

Chat, would you hate me if in my Ever After High rewrite I:

- Have Darling be the one to find the real Storybook of Legends lost in Wonderland

- Made Dexter steal Ravens place in the Storybook of Legends, essentially giving her his role and happy ending whilst he becomes the main villain thinking it’s all to help his loved ones

- Made Apple fall down the Well of Wonder instead of a water well as a kid (Beginning her first arc with Darling)

- Wrote their evil counterparts from Spring Unsrpung as their deepest fears and desires, making Apple want to destroy their world because she deeply hates and resents her fate

- Made Apple actually act like a bad bitch

- Daring the Beauty and Rosabella The Beast

- Wrote Appling friends to frenemies to lovers

- Wrote Dexven lovers to enemies to—

- Daring = Golden Child, Darling = Mothers Disgrace, Dexter = Fathers Failure

- Changed Hopper to not crush on Briar for only her beauty, but because he admires her effort and courage in making memories and forming connections with others even if she might lose them to fate

- Made Hollys fate be Rapunzel’s mother instead of being Rapunzel herself and have her question if signing her child’s life away and never see her grow up is actually for the greater good

- Aged the characters up to 19-22 because I can’t mentally deal with how young and traumatized they are in the show

- Fixed up their Magic touches to be a little more useful

- For the betterment of humanity fixed Hunters haircut

[teiasviago]

THE X-FILES 2.17 | “End Game” 5.02 | “Redux II”

[gumjester]

POSITING REWRITE THINGS TO THE CROWD BECOZ U KNOW I LUV IT.. i have figured out th new heritage hall gifts for BASICALLY every single character APART FROM.. drumroll please.. hopper!!!!! gift buying for a frog.. its harder than u think. i aim for every gift to be symbolic so i would love to hear people's thoughts... what do you think hopper should get ? even silly suggestions are welcome.. this is the creative process.. the collaborative process.. if i use ur suggestion u will 100% get credit in the chapter note!!

[idea-hub-for-fanfic]

There was a fic on ao3 that has since been deleted that I think needs to return.

It was called “Two for the Price of One”, I’m not sure who the author was but whoever they were, I miss it so much.

It’s basically Alicent and Viserys visit Rhaenyra and Laenor on Dragonstone, toddler Aegon runs off and plays in a dragons cave, where alicent finds him, and long story short Alicent ends up claiming Vermithor while she’s pregnant with Aemond and Rhaenyra helps her learn High Valaryian and basically how to be a dragon rider 101.

Anyways, I dunno who the Author was of that fic but all I want to know is if it’s been adopted, or if someone can and will adopt it, because (not to be dramatic but) I would have that fic tattooed all over my body and injected into my veins, that’s how much I love it. I would binge read it over and over again because it was incredible. 10/10, please come back.

[biwitchenergyz]

Every Sunday My House of The Dragon episode rewrites get longer and more detailed. I’m practically making a book at this point. Maybe one day I’ll post them but I think I want to give the creators a chance to end season two and maybe salvage some of the things that I find to be ruined. I have hope!

[moonshine999]

Top 15 Helaegon scenes (that we will probably never see)

Note that these are my opinions and preferences and if you don’t agree with them, just ignore it and scroll away 

As much as I love these two and team green in general, it is obvious that the writers of hotd clearly have a bias towards team black. ( That especially sucks when you consider the fact that the team green castings are utter perfection ) But with what they have done in s1, I highly doubt s2 is going to give the greens anything and instead just make them comically evil and rush their plot lines and what not

So this is basically a list of scenes I would have loved to see for Helaegon in both seasons (I may do the other characters as well) 

The list is organised from most likely to happen/ to have happened (it won’t/wouldn’t have but I need a system) i.e. 15 and least likely to happen / to have happened i.e. 1 

15.a scene after blood & cheese

🕯️him approaching her after/during the funeral 

🕯️them trying to not cry in front of the other but all in vain

🕯️them seeking comfort with each other (even if doesn’t last long)

14.hurt/comfort conversation/ argument about Aegon’s drinking and whoring 

🕯️could tie into no.13 

🕯️them arguing at the top of their lungs 

🕯️or having a conversation through tears 

13.a heartfelt conversation about how they are handling being king and queen

🕯️them talking about the pressure

🕯️how they are not ready for it/cut out for it

🕯️them promising each other that they’ll look out for the other and keep their family safe 

12.them at the green counsel together 

🕯️just to watch them glance at each other when a counsel member says something stupid/questionable/ about their kids or them

🕯️them holding hands when tough news is presented 

🕯️them listening intently whenever the other speaks 

11.dragon riding 

🕯️(flashback) Aegon asking her if she would like to go dragon riding with him as she has just claimed dreamfyre 

🕯️them flying around king’s landing with their kids saddled in on their dragons 

10.family dinner

🕯️just the greens having dinner together to welcome daeron and/or gwayne 

🕯️them keeping a close eye on their kids but slowly letting their guard down when they see how comfortable they are with their uncle

🕯️them being the older sibling menaces they are and teasing the hells out of Aemond and Daeron 

🕯️Helaena having to leave early as the kids want only her to get them to bed and Aegon bringing desert to her in their room

09.their younger versions interacting with Rhaenyra 

🕯️either separately or together 

🕯️Helaena being closed off at firsts but then they start discussing all sorts of things from bugs to jewellery to how both of them loved to hear stories from Alicent 

🕯️Aegon and Rhaenyra initially wanting to keep away from each other but they have a small talk before his wedding about Helaena, their dragons and their father before they are rudely interrupted by either daemon or Otto or both. 

08.scenes with their kids 

🕯️Helaena comforting Jaehaerys after someone made a comment about his fingers

🕯️Aegon having some self reflection after Jaehaera says they threatened to rape her (obviously in the show, would not have included the rapist thing if I was writing it but if they wanted to “redeem” him, this is the best solution imo)

🕯️them trying to decide what to name maelor along with the twins 

07.Helaena’s pregnancy 

🕯️either with maelor or a 4th child (according to some leaks) 

🕯️Criston whispering to Aegon during a counsel that it’s a boy/girl 

🕯️him looking around the arguing members and quietly slipping out of the room before rushing to his wife 

06.dance/ballroom scene 

🕯️after the jace debacle, his insecurities skyrocket 

🕯️just him getting fully intoxicated by his wife as they dance 

🕯️them laughing as they spin around 

🕯️them getting applause and cheers as they make their way to the floor 

05.them gifting each other stuff 

🕯️necklaces, brooches for not being around as often 

🕯️chalices with various dragon imagery for his nameday 

🕯️her stitching his favourite flower onto his nightshirt

🕯️them getting their kids to help when they want to surprise the other with something 

04.(flashback) where they get into trouble and collectively decide to blame Aemond 

🕯️Alicent interrogating the shit out of them 

🕯️one look and they were at the library reading mythology about the Seven and the last person they saw at the crime scene was Aemond 

🕯️Alicent gives a disappointed sigh and they are both dismissed and as they walk away- a casual “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?” from the other side of the door 

03.wedding flashback

🕯️Both are initially against it, they think of it as a punishment 

🕯️but a talk with their mother or half-sister makes them understand that this is for the betterment of the family  

🕯️they dance together, they talk shit about what the lords and ladies are wearing, they soften up at their mother’s wide smile 

🕯️Perhaps their father is smiling too. They can’t tell. But right now it doesn’t matter, they don’t care.

🕯️Aegon wearing white with gold details and a gold cloak with his hair tied up

🕯️Helaena wearing white with silver details and blue jewels on her dress and her crown 

02.bathtub scene 

🕯️domestic helaegon all day EVERYDAY 

🕯️her cleaning him up with his burns

🕯️he starts crying but they work through it together until it’s over 

🕯️him cleaning her during her pregnancy

🕯️them giggling like their kids 

🕯️them helping each other get dressed afterwards (like just imagine them in what seems to be a hug while he laces up her dress and she pins in his cloak) 

01. A sex scene 

🕯️enough said really.

Alright I hope you liked it

Since the writers for hotd won’t, send me the number and I’ll write a drabble 

[theetherealbloom]

IF THERE'S NOTHING LEFT - CH.1

Chapter One: Be The Light, When All The Lights Go Out

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

Paring: General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

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

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF… I NEEDED TO START THIS FIC. RRRAAAAAHHHH. Also, Marcus and Lucilla are NOT married in this fic/AU lmao. I might get some terms wrong since I can’t find the complete script yet (pls help) so I'll be editing this as time passes. And I’m like… not a historian so lol. 

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

Song: If There's Nothing Left by NIKI

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A DAY BEFORE THE RANSACKING OF NUMIDIA

ROME, 200 A.D. — DAY

The air in your clinic was heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of sweat. Shouts and groans from the injured filled the space, their voices blending into a cacophony of pain that would have broken a lesser person. But not you.  

You moved with the precision of a master sculptor, your hands steady as you sutured the gaping wound on a gladiator’s shoulder. Blood seeped into the linen bandages you’d prepared, but you didn’t flinch. Your focus was unshakable, the outside world forgotten as you worked to save the life in front of you.

General Marcus Acacius stood in the shadows of the doorway, his imposing frame unnoticed amidst the chaos. His dark eyes were fixed on you, the healer who had garnered whispers throughout Rome. He had heard of your work, of course—how you treated anyone who came through your doors, from nobles to slaves, without regard for their station. It was rare to see such defiance of societal norms, rarer still to see it done with such quiet grace.  

He watched as you leaned closer to the wounded man, murmuring words of reassurance.  

“Stay still, brave one,” you said softly, your voice low and soothing, cutting through his pain like a balm. “The worst of it is over. You’ll be back in the arena soon enough, though I’d rather you didn’t return at all.”  

The gladiator managed a weak chuckle, wincing as you tied off the last stitch. “You speak as if I have a choice.”  

Your lips curved into a wry smile, though sadness lingered in your eyes. “Perhaps one day you will.”  

Marcus found himself captivated—not just by your skill, but by the quiet authority you wielded in the room. It was rare for him to see someone move with such purpose, commanding respect without ever raising their voice.  

“You risk much, treating slaves and gladiators,” Marcus said, his voice deep and cutting through the din like a blade. 

You didn’t look up, finishing your work before addressing him. “And you risk much, General, entering a place like this.”  

There was no fear in your tone, only a calm defiance that piqued his curiosity. Marcus stepped closer, his boots echoing on the stone floor.

“I’ve seen many healers,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “None with hands as steady as yours. Nor one who speaks so freely.”  

You glanced up at him then, your eyes meeting his with an intensity that momentarily silenced the chaos around you. He was a striking figure, his presence commanding and his face marked by years of war. But it was his eyes that caught you—the deep well of pain and weariness they carried, hidden beneath a veneer of stoicism.  

“Perhaps that’s because most healers know when to hold their tongue,” you replied, arching a brow. “But I’ve found that truth tends to have a healing quality of its own.”  

The corner of his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “And yet, truth has also been known to end lives, particularly in Rome.”  

You returned your attention to the gladiator, checking the bandages one last time. “Then it seems we both walk a fine line, General.”  

Something about the way you said his title felt less like deference and more like acknowledgment. It wasn’t fear or awe that guided your words, but a quiet understanding of who he was and the power he held.  

Marcus watched as you moved to the next patient, a young boy with a deep gash on his leg. Despite the blood staining your hands and the weariness etched into your features, you treated the boy with the same care and kindness you had shown the gladiator.

“Why do you do it?” Marcus asked suddenly, his voice softer now. “Why risk your safety for those Rome has deemed unworthy?”

You paused, glancing at him over your shoulder. For a moment, the question hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken meaning.

“Because someone has to,” you said simply. “If I don’t, who will?”

The honesty of your answer struck something deep within Marcus. He had spent years justifying his actions as a soldier, telling himself that the violence he carried out was for the good of Rome. Yet here you were, defying the very structure that upheld his world, all for the sake of compassion.

As Marcus continued to watch you, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was witnessing something rare—something that Rome, in all its grandeur, could not crush. For the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of hope.

You broke the silence first, turning to face him fully. “Shouldn’t you be with your army—overseeing the ships and preparing to ransack Numidia, yet another city, all for the so-called ‘Glory of Rome’?” You arched a brow at him, shifting your weight onto one hip with a subtle air of defiance.

The corner of Marcus’s mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps,” he replied, his voice low, “but I find myself drawn elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” You tilted your head, your tone edged with skepticism. “Surely the great General Marcus Acacius has more pressing matters than standing in a healer’s clinic.”

“Perhaps,” he repeated, stepping closer. “But standing here, I begin to wonder if those pressing matters might pale in comparison to what I’ve found.” 

Your breath hitched, but you recovered quickly, letting out a soft laugh. “Flattery from a general. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“It’s not flattery,” he said, his eyes locking with yours. “It’s truth.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head. “Careful, General. If you keep talking like that, people might start to think you have a heart.”

“Perhaps I do,” he said, his tone quiet, thoughtful. “And perhaps it’s found something worth fighting for, beyond Rome.”

Your breath caught at his words, your heart pounding in a way you hadn’t felt in years. But before you could respond, Marcus turned and walked toward the door, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet.

“I’ll return,” he said without looking back. “There’s still much I need to learn from you.”

And as he disappeared into the sunlight, leaving you alone in the quiet of your clinic, you couldn’t help but feel that your world had shifted—just a little, but enough to make you wonder what might come next.

ROME, 200 A.D. — AFTERNOON

The light of the afternoon sun streamed through the tall, arched windows of Senator Gracchus’s residence, casting golden patterns across the polished marble floors. You moved with practiced ease through the grand room, gathering fresh bandages and jars of ointment from your bag while keeping an ear to the Senator’s usual musings. Today, however, your mind was elsewhere.

“Did you send him to me?” you asked, your tone casual but your curiosity evident. You didn’t look up as you sorted through your supplies, your hands deftly organizing the salves and herbs.

“Send who?” Senator Gracchus replied, reclining on his plush lectus, the deep crimson cushions making him look more regal than his age might suggest. His tone was light, but there was a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. He was far too clever to play coy without reason.

“The General. General Acacius.” You paused, glancing at him from the corner of your eye before returning to your work.

The Senator’s lips curled into a knowing smile as he raised his chalice of wine. “Ah, Marcus. I may have mentioned your name in passing conversation.”

You froze for a moment, your brow furrowing. “In passing conversation?” 

“Of course.” He swirled the wine lazily in his cup. “I simply spoke of a brilliant healer who mends not just bodies but spirits. It seems the good general decided to see for himself if the rumors were true.”

You let out a soft huff, shaking your head as you resumed unpacking your things. “Well, he approached me today.”

“And how was he?” Gracchus asked, leaning forward slightly, his expression both intrigued and amused.

“He seemed…” You hesitated, your hands stilling as you searched for the right words. Memories of the encounter flickered in your mind—his commanding presence, the intensity in his eyes, the way his words seemed to linger long after he’d spoken them. “Alright, I suppose,” you said finally, shrugging your shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance. 

Gracchus chuckled softly, setting his chalice down on a nearby table. “Alright, you suppose? My dear, you’re a terrible liar.”

You turned to face him, crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” the Senator began, his tone teasing, “that you’ve just met one of the most formidable men in Rome, and yet here you are pretending he didn’t make an impression.”

Your cheeks warmed slightly, though you refused to let it show. “Impression or not, I don’t see how it’s relevant. I’m here to heal people, not… whatever it is you’re insinuating.”

“Oh, I’m not insinuating anything,” Gracchus said with a sly grin. “But let me give you a piece of advice, my dear. Men like Marcus Acacius don’t walk into someone’s life without a reason.”

“Perhaps he was just curious,” you said, turning away to mask the flutter of nerves that crept up your spine. “Or bored.”

“Curiosity doesn’t often bring him to clinics,” the Senator mused, leaning back once more. “Boredom even less so. Whatever the reason, I’d wager it has little to do with medicine.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “If this is your way of playing matchmaker, Senator, I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“And here I thought you’d appreciate a distraction,” Gracchus said, raising his chalice once more. “But very well. Consider the matter dropped.”

For now, you thought, knowing full well that Gracchus wasn’t one to let things go so easily. As you busied yourself with preparing his treatment, you couldn’t help but replay the moment you’d locked eyes with Marcus Acacius, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. 

Alright, you supposed. But deep down, you knew it was far more than that.

A FEW WEEKS LATER…

OSTIA, PORT OF ROME — DAY  

The sun blazed high over the port, casting a golden glow over the triumphant scene unfolding below. The air was alive with the sound of celebration—the roar of the crowd, the rhythmic chanting of his name.  

“Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!”  

You stood at a distance, hidden in the shadows of a towering marble column, your gaze fixed on the man at the center of the spectacle. Marcus Acacius, the war hero of Rome, returned victorious. His white chariot, pulled by majestic horses, moved with deliberate grace through the throng of citizens who waved laurel branches and tossed flowers into the air.  

The general himself was a vision of Roman splendor, adorned in white and gold, a flowing cape billowing behind him like the wings of an avenging angel. He waved politely to the people, his expression calm and composed, though you suspected a storm brewed beneath that veneer.  

As the chariot came to a halt at the steps of the grand Temple of Mars Ultor, young girls dressed in flowing white tunics and crowned with fresh flowers scattered rose petals in his path. He ascended the steps with measured strides, the marble beneath his feet gleaming in the sunlight.  

You stood among the other servants, the weight of a velvet pillow in your hands anchoring you to the moment. Atop the pillow rested a crown of golden laurels, shimmering with the promise of empty glory. Senator Gracchus had arranged for you to present it, an honor you neither wanted nor could refuse. Your palms were damp with nerves, but it wasn’t fear of the crowd or ceremony that unsettled you. It was the cruel spectacle of it all—the emperors reveling in their power while Rome decayed beneath their feet.  

Marcus reached the top of the steps, standing before the twin emperors. Geta, younger and deceptively charming, gestured to the approaching general. Caracalla, brooding and sharp-featured, watched with an intensity that made the scene feel like a predator sizing up prey.  

Marcus placed a fist over his heart in the Roman salutatio, nodding first to one and then the other. “Emperor Geta,” he began, his voice steady. He turned his gaze to the other. “Emperor Caracalla.”  

“General Acacius,” Geta replied with a wide, practiced smile.  

Marcus straightened, his tone humble yet firm. “I have taken Numidia in your names. Your dominion may yet eclipse that of every emperor who came before you.”  

Caracalla smirked, gesturing lazily to you with a flick of his hand. “Crown him with laurels, brother.”  

Your heart leapt as all eyes turned to you. You stepped forward, forcing yourself to keep your movements measured. Bowing your head slightly, you presented the pillow to Geta. He took the crown, sparing you no more than a dismissive glance, and you retreated quickly, blending back into the shadows as the ceremony continued.  

Geta placed the golden laurels atop Marcus’s salt-and-pepper curls, his smile widening as the crowd erupted in cheers. The senators clapped politely, their faces masks of approval, though you wondered how many of them truly celebrated the general's return.  

The procession moved inside the temple, where the grandeur of marble columns and gilded statues loomed over the gathering. You lingered near the edges of the hall, half-hidden among other attendants. Your eyes were drawn to Marcus, who stood surrounded by Rome’s elite yet seemed entirely apart from them.  

Geta approached Marcus with two chalices of wine, his gait almost casual. “In honor of your conquest, there will be games in the Colosseum,” he said, handing one to the general.  

Marcus accepted it with a polite nod, though his expression remained neutral. “I require no games in my honor. Serving the senate and the people of Rome is honor enough for me.”  

He raised the chalice to toast, but Geta pulled his cup back with a sharp laugh. “You are too modest, Acacius. It does not suit a general as accomplished as yourself.” He clinked their glasses together before Marcus could respond, his tone dripping with mockery.  

“The glory is yours, not mine,” Marcus replied, his words measured. “I only ask for respite from war. To spend time with…” His voice trailed off as his gaze flickered briefly—so briefly—toward you.  

Your breath hitched, the moment so fleeting that you questioned whether it had happened at all.  

Caracalla, lounging nearby, smirked. “Time for what, general? Gardens and poetry? Or something sweeter?”  

Geta ignored his brother, moving to a table where a long ceremonial sword rested. He lifted it, examining the blade with a predatory gleam in his eyes. “There are victories yet to come, Acacius.”  

He turned back toward the general, raising the sword as if to knight him. Lightly, he tapped Marcus’s shoulders, then paused, the blade hovering near his neck.  

“Persia. India. Both must be conquered.”  

With a slow, deliberate motion, Geta pressed the edge of the blade against Marcus’s neck, the sharp metal breaking skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood.  

Marcus didn’t flinch, though his expression darkened. His voice was low, steady, and cold. “Rome has so many subjects. She must feed them.”  

He swatted the blade away from his neck, a flicker of defiance passing between him and the emperor.  

Caracalla’s laugh rang out, sharp and cruel. “They can eat war!”  

Geta let the sword clatter to the floor, the sound echoing across the hall. “Your triumphs will be celebrated, General Acacius,” he said, his tone pointed. “As a tribute to the greatness of the Roman people.”  

He extended his hand, adorned with gaudy rings, and Marcus had no choice but to bow and kiss it. You saw the flicker of disdain in his eyes even as his lips brushed the emperor’s hand.  

From your shadowed corner, your heart ached for him. For the man who bore the weight of Rome’s sins with a quiet dignity that deserved so much more than the cruelty of its rulers.  

IMPERIAL VILLA — NIGHT  

The villa perched on the outskirts of Rome exuded a quiet elegance, its columns and arches glowing under the pale light of the moon. The night was thick with fog, curling like tendrils of smoke through the cypress trees that lined the estate. A gentle breeze carried the scent of rosemary and lavender from the gardens, mingling with the faint hum of nocturnal life.  

Inside, the villa was equally serene. Lucilla, ever gracious, had agreed to host you at the request of Senator Gracchus. The senator had claimed it was “more appropriate” for you to stay under her care, given the delicate balance of Roman customs and the constant scrutiny of the twin emperors. In truth, you suspected it was also for your safety. Lucilla’s influence, though quietly wielded, was a shield few dared to challenge.  

The villa was warm and inviting, a haven amidst the chaos of Rome. Yet, even as you settled into your temporary quarters, a restlessness stirred within you. You missed the simplicity of your small home, the steady rhythm of your work. Here, despite Lucilla’s kindness, you felt like a guest in gilded captivity.  

Meanwhile, Marcus Acacius found himself battling his own restlessness. When he learned you were staying with Lucilla, the knowledge sparked an idea he could hardly ignore. Though he was no stranger to the villa—it was a place he visited often as a long-time confidant of Lucilla—tonight, his reasons for coming were far from casual.  

He rode through the foggy night, his steed's hooves echoing against the stone-paved road. The air was cold, biting against his cheeks, but he barely noticed. Two of his guards flanked him, silent and watchful as shadows.  

When he reached the gates of the villa, a sentry stepped forward, his spear raised in a show of duty. “Halt! Who goes there?”  

The torchlight illuminated Marcus’s face, and recognition dawned on the guard. His stance shifted immediately. Placing a fist over his heart, he bowed. “General.”  

“Open the gates,” Marcus commanded, his voice steady but not unkind.  

The heavy iron gates creaked open, and Marcus dismounted his steed with practiced ease. A stable boy rushed forward to take the reins, bowing quickly before leading the horse away. Marcus adjusted his cloak, brushing off the dampness of the night, and stepped into the villa’s grounds.  

Inside, Lucilla greeted him in the atrium, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders and her sharp eyes glinting with curiosity. “Marcus,” she said warmly, though there was a knowing lilt to her tone. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”  

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Marcus replied, his lips curving into a polite smile. “I was nearby and thought it prudent to pay a visit.”  

“Nearby?” Lucilla arched an elegant brow. “Unless the general has taken to wandering the countryside aimlessly at night, I suspect there’s more to this visit than proximity.”  

Marcus didn’t answer immediately, his eyes scanning the villa’s hall. It was quieter than usual, the stillness broken only by the faint crackle of torches and the murmur of distant voices.  

Lucilla stepped closer, her expression softening. “She’s in the east wing,” she said, her voice dropping slightly.  

Marcus turned to her, his gaze sharp. “Who?”  

Lucilla smirked, crossing her arms. “You didn’t ride through the night for me, Marcus. Don’t insult my intelligence.”  

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You always see through me, Lucilla.”  

“It’s a gift,” she quipped, then gestured toward the hallway. “Go. But don’t wake the entire villa with your heavy boots.”  

Marcus inclined his head in thanks before making his way toward the east wing. The soft glow of oil lamps guided his path, casting flickering shadows on the walls. As he approached your quarters, his steps slowed.  

You were seated by the window, a soft blanket draped over your shoulders, gazing out at the misty garden. The stillness of the night felt fragile, like it might shatter at the slightest sound. The dim light of the oil lamp beside you softened your features, though weariness lingered in your eyes.  

A soft clearing of a throat broke the silence, low but deliberate.  

You turned quickly, your heart skipping at the unexpected intrusion. “General Acacius?”  

He leaned against the doorway, his armor traded for a plain, white tunic and dark cloak that suited the quiet of the night. His lips curled into a faint smirk. “My lady.”  

“I am no lady, General,” you corrected, your brow arching slightly.  

“Marcus,” he said, stepping into the room with a deliberate grace. “And I didn’t mean to disturb you.”  

“You didn’t,” you replied, though the confusion in your voice was evident. “What brings you here at this hour?”  

For a moment, he hesitated, as if weighing his words. Then, with a slight shrug, he said, “I wanted to ensure you were settling in comfortably. Lucilla’s hospitality can be... unique.”  

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “It’s generous, though I can’t help but feel a bit out of place.”  

Marcus nodded, his expression thoughtful. “This villa has always felt like a sanctuary. But I know it can be difficult to find peace in unfamiliar surroundings.”  

For a while, silence stretched between you. The weight of the world outside the villa—Rome’s cruelty, the constant tension—seemed to press lightly against the walls, but here, in this moment, the quiet was soothing.  

“Did you really ride all this way just to check on me?” you asked, a teasing note in your voice that broke through the stillness.  

His lips twitched, the beginnings of a smile warming his face. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”  

You tilted your head, studying him carefully, your gaze soft but sharp. “I might.”  

He stepped closer, the flickering light of the lamp catching the faintest glimmer in his dark eyes. His expression, though tempered by years of military discipline, held a warmth that made your heart skip.  

“Good,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.  

The room seemed smaller suddenly, the air charged with something unspoken. You cleared your throat, shifting slightly, your hands clutching at the fabric of your skirts as if to anchor yourself.  

“I thank the gods that brought you back home safe,” you said, your voice quieter now, tinged with something deeper.  

Marcus’s gaze didn’t falter. “Thank the army,” he replied humbly. “They protected me.”  

You nodded, acknowledging his words. “You must be hungry, then?”  

He raised a brow, clearly amused by the shift in the conversation, but he didn’t resist. “It has been a long ride.”  

Turning, you glanced toward the servant standing silently near the doorway. You offered her an apologetic smile, and she nodded in understanding before quietly leaving the room to fetch food and drink.  

As the door closed behind her, you turned back to Marcus. “It’s the least I can offer after you came all this way.”  

His lips twitched again, his faint smile now fully formed. “You’ve already offered more than you know.”  

You blinked, tilting your head in quiet curiosity. “What do you mean?”  

“Your kindness,” he said simply, stepping closer still. “It’s rare in Rome. Even rarer in my world.”  

Your cheeks warmed under his steady gaze, and you quickly turned your attention back to the window, hoping the dim light would hide your reaction. “I only do what anyone should.”  

“Perhaps,” he said softly, “but not everyone does.”  

The sincerity in his voice sent a flutter through your chest. When you finally looked back at him, he was closer now, his presence commanding but not overwhelming.  

“You’re too generous with your praise, Marcus,” you said, though the words felt light, almost teasing.  

“And you’re far too modest,” he countered, the smirk returning to his lips.  

The sound of footsteps approaching signaled the servant’s return, breaking the charged silence between you. She entered with a tray of fruit, bread, and wine, placing it on the small table by the window before bowing and retreating once more.  

You gestured toward the table, a soft smile gracing your lips. “Please, sit. You’ve had a long day.”  

Marcus inclined his head, his expression grateful as he took the seat opposite you. The light from the lamp flickered between you, casting long shadows on the walls.  

As you poured wine into two cups, the flickering lamplight caught the soft curve of your profile, drawing his gaze. Marcus watched you, his expression thoughtful, warm, and just a little too intense.  

“You should know,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “this isn’t just about ensuring you’re comfortable.”  

Your hands hesitated for the briefest moment before continuing their task, but the air in the room seemed to thicken. You glanced up at him, your brow arching as you placed one of the cups in front of him. “Have you finally come to your senses and decided to arrest me? For treating those the Senate deems unworthy of saving?”  

The corner of his mouth twitched, a wry, fleeting almost-smile. “No.”  

You leaned back slightly, folding your arms across your chest, your head tilting in mock suspicion. “Then perhaps you’ve come to lecture me? To remind me how dangerous it is to meddle in things beyond my station?”  

His gaze softened, the warmth in it almost unsettling. “Do you think so little of me?”  

The teasing edge in your posture faltered for just a moment before you quickly recovered, glancing down into your own cup. “You’re a General, Marcus. You’re loyal to Rome. To the Senate. My work…” You shrugged, trying to sound casual despite the weight in your voice. “It doesn’t exactly align with the ideals of your empire.”  

Marcus reached for his cup, his hand brushing briefly, almost imperceptibly, against the edge of yours. “You’re right,” he said finally, his tone unreadable.  

Your gaze snapped to his, surprised. “I am?”  

“You don’t align with the empire,” he continued, taking a slow sip of the wine. “You stand above it. You see its flaws and still choose to fight for what’s right, even when it’s dangerous. Even when it puts you at risk.”  

The words struck something deep within you, leaving you momentarily at a loss. You hadn’t expected that—his understanding, his admiration.  

“And you don’t find that... infuriating?” you asked, trying to mask the tremor in your voice with a wry smile.  

“Infuriating?” he echoed, setting the cup down. “No.” His gaze held yours, steady and unyielding. “It’s extraordinary.”  

A sudden heat rushed to your cheeks, and you turned your attention to the fire crackling softly in the hearth. “You’re far too kind, General.”  

“Marcus,” he corrected gently, leaning forward.  

“Marcus,” you repeated, the name tasting unfamiliar on your tongue, though not unpleasant.  

He smiled faintly, as if satisfied. “And I’m not being kind—I’m being honest. Too few in this city have the courage to act as you do. Even fewer have the heart.”  

You looked back at him, searching his face for any trace of insincerity and finding none. The man before you wasn’t the untouchable war hero paraded through Rome’s streets. He was something quieter, something deeper.  

“And what about you?” you asked softly. “Aren’t you tired of all this? The battles, the politics, the endless expectations?”  

His expression shifted, a shadow passing over his features. “More than you could ever know.”  

The quiet confession hung between you, delicate and heavy all at once.  

“Then why not walk away?” you pressed, your voice barely above a whisper.  

He gave a low, humorless laugh, running a hand through his curly hair. “And go where? Rome would never let me go, even if I wanted to. And…” He hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to you before settling on the fire. “There are reasons to stay.”  

Your breath caught at the implication, but you forced yourself to keep your tone light. “Duty, I suppose?”  

His eyes met yours again, darker now, more intense. “Something like that.”  

The weight of his words pressed against your chest, and you found yourself wondering if he could hear the sudden quickening of your heart.  

“I’m not sure I understand you, Marcus,” you said quietly, the teasing edge gone from your voice.  

“Good,” he replied, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’d hate to be predictable.”  

You couldn’t help but smile at that, shaking your head as you finally took a sip of your wine. “You’re certainly not that.”  

The room fell into a companionable silence, the crackling of the fire and the distant chirping of crickets filling the space. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of the world seemed to lift, if only slightly.  

“Thank you,” you said after a while, your voice soft but sincere.  

He tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “For what?”  

“For coming,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “For… for seeing me. Not just tonight, but—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “For seeing me as more than what Rome would make me.”  

His expression softened, and for a moment, the guardedness in his eyes melted away, replaced by something unspoken but undeniable. “It’s impossible not to.”  

The words wrapped around your heart, and for a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to believe them.  

“At times, I wish you would abandon all of this,” you said softly, your voice trembling with honesty. “The wars. The blood. The service to men who deserve none of it.”  

Marcus’s jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching before he answered. “I’ve made my choice,” he said, his tone resolute, but there was a flicker of weariness in his eyes. “I can live with it. But my patience with them is at an end.”  

You glanced toward the far corner of the room, where Leta, the ever-watchful servant, lingered. Offering her a kind smile, you said, “Leta, you may go to your quarters now. We’ll need nothing more this evening.”  

Leta hesitated, her gaze flickering between the two of you, but at your gentle nod, she smiled and curtsied, before slipping out, leaving the room steeped in a quiet intimacy.  

Marcus exhaled deeply, as if the act of speaking had been weighing on him. He set his cup down on the nearby table across from you, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as though bearing the weight of Rome itself. “To hear wives and mothers mourning their dead on that beach of Numidia…” His voice was low, rough with emotion. He scoffed bitterly and ran a hand through his hair. “No more. I will not waste another generation of young men for their vanity. If I fight another campaign…” His gaze hardened, a fire igniting in his eyes. “It must be to depose them.”

Your breath hitched at the words. “You’re telling me this… why?” you asked carefully. “We’ve met only briefly. Why would you trust me with something so dangerous?”  

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his intense gaze locking onto yours. “Am I wrong to assume that Senator Gracchus and Lucilla have been whispering thoughts not unlike my own? That Rome deserves better than two tyrants playing at being gods?”  

You hesitated, your lips quirking slightly to the side as you considered your answer. Finally, you gave him a small nod. “You’re not wrong. The whispers grow louder with each passing day.”  

For a moment, the room was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth. You licked your lips nervously and took a steadying breath. Meeting his eyes, you asked, “When will your troops arrive?”  

“They’ll land in Ostia in ten days,” he replied, his voice low and firm.  

You nodded, your mind already calculating the implications. “How many will be loyal to you? To you alone?”  

“All of them,” he said without hesitation. “Many of them owe their lives to you, as I’ve heard it. Your words of wisdom, your care in the camps—they remember. Soldiers don’t forget kindness, especially in a world so devoid of it.”  

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you pressed on. “The emperors have lost the people’s support,” you said, your voice heavy with conviction. “The citizens are weary of their madness, their tyranny. What is the dream of Rome if our people are not free?”  

Marcus let out a long sigh, the weight of the truth settling over him. “A dream deferred,” he murmured. “But not lost. Not yet.”  

The silence that followed was charged, the enormity of what lay ahead pressing upon both of you. You searched his face, seeing the resolute determination of a soldier but also the quiet yearning of a man who had seen too much, endured too much.  

“And what of you?” he asked, his voice softer now. “If the tide turns, if the gods will it… what would your dream of Rome be?”  

You hesitated, the question catching you off guard. “A Rome where compassion isn’t a weakness. Where the people, not the emperors, hold the power. A Rome where no child grows up in fear of a tyrant’s whim.”  

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the hardened lines of his face eased. “That’s a dream worth fighting for,” he said quietly.  

You gave him a small, tentative smile. “And worth surviving for.”  

The words lingered in the air between you, a shared understanding forming in the flickering light. Neither of you dared to say it outright, but the unspoken promise was clear: whatever lay ahead, you would not face it alone.  

[the-martyrfication-of-the-matron]

I did a redo- version of some Ranth art i did.

(small tw for blood)

Avra and Garroth's ship name is Avroth and i love them. Technically could also be Garvra but idk. i also dont know why Garroth'a hair looks white in this lmao its meant to be a pale blonde but i couldnt be bothered to fix it.

The Ranth version from like forever ago (August)

Also, bc it's Avra version, there is a bloodier version of the redraw. Just bc Ranth!Garmau were being cute and slightly angsty, Redo!Avroth are just god and devotee 24/7

so...

TW for blood and implied organ/meat consumption (not of Garroth)

(context, injured garroth, Avra who needs to eat hearts to have magic, you get the idea)

[thetarttfuldickhead]

”I talked to Southgate yesterday.”

The sun is not yet up; Jamie is dutifully stretching his legs in the cold yellow of a streetlight when Roy suddenly speaks. It’s the first thing he’s said all morning, except for gruff commands of run and ten more and fucking higher, Tartt. 

“Yeah?” Switching legs to work on his other calf, Jamie tries for a casual tone, fails, and doesn’t much care. “What about?” 

Roy gives him a look: the fuck do you think? There’s no heat in it, though. Rarely is these days, and that thought is a glowing ember in Jamie’s chest, equal parts joy and amazement.  

For a moment, Roy doesn’t say anything else. Jamie completes his stretches and straightens. Waits, with heart hammering hard, hard beneath his hoodie. 

“He got in touch two years ago,” Roy finally offers, seemingly adressing the streetlight. “Before the Euros. Asked about you, what sort of player you were.” He glances at Jamie then, face carefully blank. “I told him the truth.” 

That… hurts, unexpectedly. Not because Jamie is surprised, really, or because it is unfair, because he isn’t and it’s not, but still. It stings, though not as bad as it had back then, and for different reasons. 

He wants to make a joke, say something glib to chase the taste of resigned dismay and shame away: he opens his mouth; closes it again. Looks away from Roy and is grateful that the other man seems content to leave it at that rather than going into the details of just what he’d told Southgate. Fair or not, Jamie thinks he can do without hearing it. He can imagine it well enough. 

Roy is studying him, like he’s expecting Jamie to protest or complain. It feels a little bit like a test, maybe. Jamie remains quiet. Fiddles with his sleeves for something to do with his hands as the silence grows longer and the morning colder around him.   

And perhaps it is a test after all, because after a moment Roy nods slowly before starting to talk again. “Anyway, yesterday I called him up to let him know that those things I said two years ago weren’t true anymore, and that I didn’t want any of that to be held against you now.” 

Jamie’s eyes snap to Roy’s face and he opens his mouth to speak, but Roy holds his hand up, forestalling him. “Now, I have no idea what’s going to happen so I don’t want you getting your hopes up, but I’m telling you this because if he calls I want you to be prepared, because he’ll be asking about that stupid shit you pulled, what the fuck you thought you were doing, and I need you to be on your best fucking behaviour, okay? Don’t grovel, but none of that fucking cocky bravado or defensive bullshit either. You were a prick, you understand that now, and you’ve worked fucking hard at being better. Got it?” 

Jamie nods, quickly, eagerly, because yeah, yeah, he can do that. Would probably be up for a bit of grovelling too, if it increased his chances of being called up. Fuck, he’ll say whatever he has to say, spill his whole fucking heart if need be to prove that he can be the best fucking— 

Suddenly, he frowns. Roy notices and raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Should I… “ Jamie pauses, uncertain. “Should I tell him, you know, about me dad? I mean, if he asks why I left City to do a TV show, what do I say?” 

Roy considers that for a bit. It occurs to Jamie that Roy probably doesn’t actually know why Jamie ran out on City the way he did; Jamie certainly never told him, and he doubts Ted did either. But he can probably guess the rough shape of it anyway.

“Gareth’s a good man,” Roy offers at long last. “You want to tell him the truth, you tell him the truth, he won’t say a word. Don’t try to use it as an excuse though.” 

“I won’t,” Jamie says with a small scowl and a flash of annoyance, because when has he ever? 

Maybe Roy realizes as much, because his face softens into something almost apologetic. “I’m just saying, because I don’t want any of that old stuff getting in the way of you being called up now.“ He pauses, like he’s hesitating over whether to keep on talking or not. Settles for keep on talking, apparently, because he adds, without looking at Jamie, “You deserve it.”

Three words, and enough for the ember in his chest to roar into open flame. Jamie can feel the heat of it reach his face; gentle warmth in the February chill. “Thanks, Coach.”

--- 

The call comes two days later. Taking it has Jamie running late for training and when he finally rushes into the dressing room Roy lays into him with enough venom to make the other players carefully back away from them. Still, Jamie can’t do a thing to quell the grin on his face.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Roy snaps. 

“Southgate called.” He’s a little surprised to hear how dazed he sounds. Feels like he could fucking fly, but the words come out almost hushed. 

Roy immediately stills. “And?”

He should savour it, perhaps, the triumph of this moment. Take a second to marvel at the sight of Roy – Roy fucking Kent – holding his breath as he waits for an answer, but he can’t, he can’t, it’s too big, to happy, too fucking good, and he can’t hold it in. “He’s calling me up.”

[5ome-7ype-0f-5hapeshifter]

I THINK IVE BEEN INFECTED WITH POLYSLAMS PROPAGANDA. H

heres thems in a cuddle pile.