#storm of hail and fire

[pulpsandcomics2]

The Seventh Plague of Egypt by John Martin

[itspileofgoodthings]

had a moment today with my seniors that was so tense, I made myself stop, breathe, and say three hail Mary’s under my breath. the moment teetered and then the tension broke. I was so relieved.

[modernmythic]

I used to like thunderstorms...but now almost every single one of them is "severe" and comes with a chance of tornadoes and hail and high winds and just like...fuck climate change. I just wanna be able to enjoy some rain and rumbling thunder sounds without worrying about property damage and death 🤷🏼‍♀️

[celineszoges]

Beatle Blues    --    Make Earth Sustainable Again !

Love  me!   

Here Comes the Sun!   

Help!   

Don’t Let Me Down!

[missadangel]

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

I. Sol Invictus

next chapter series masterlist

Chapter Summary:  You are an assistant to a costume designer on a busy movie set, where the pressure is high and the work is exhausting. One difficult evening during a lunar eclipse, you suddenly spot a man in a Roman military outfit materializing out of nowhere. Chapter Word Count: 14k (sorry but I had to introduce characters properly :)) authors note: It's a bit of a romantic-comedy-drama stuff because Marcus doesn't know that he traveled to 2025, LMAO poor baby (and you know I'm a hopeless romantic). I'll explain in more detail in chapters why he ended up here and what led him to meet the reader, but I'm avoiding spoilers. And the reader will help him get back to his time but accidentally travel to ancient Rome because of something; i can't talk more, lol. Wait for the episodes, please thank youuuu. if you wanna be tagged lemme know! Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Ofc!Reader (Her name is Rose, and her hair is dyed) Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut Warnings: Harsh, cold, grumpy Marcus, and the reader is NOT innocent a little bitchy, Lucilla is mean, Lucius is a jerk(but falls in love with reader), its Septimius Severus' era but Geta and Caracalla are the prince of Rome, time travel, modern-ancient era travels, falling in love, slow burn, rough sex, smut, sex, oral sex (both f&m receiving), all sex, dirty talk, gladiators, battle, war, violence, blood, ancient time language, fluffy, injury, forced marriage, arranged marriage, sexism, haters to lovers, first love, angst, vestal virgins, vestal priestesses, age gap; reader is 25 Marcus is 42, reincarnation my masterlist

....Chapter Theme.....

**Rome, 205 AD***

"Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!" 

"Saviour of Rome!" 

"Hail to the new general of Rome!" 

"Hail Acacius!"

The streets of Rome reverberated with fervent cheers, a tidal wave of voices rising in tribute to a singular figure: Marcus Justus Acacius. 

At forty years of age, Acacius had recently ascended to the prestigious title of general, his fame forged in the fires of battle and cemented by the decree of Emperor Severus. A man of unwavering loyalty and formidable skill, he had never tasted defeat, a fact that resonated deeply with the hearts of the Roman people.

As he emerged from the shadows of the grandiose triumphal arch, bedecked in gleaming white armor that caught the sun in a dazzling display, the crowd surged forward, intoxicated by their adoration. The very air around him crackled with electricity, a palpable sense of reverence enveloping the scene. 

For the citizens, he stood as a titan, almost a god among men—a triumphant commander, a stalwart soldier, an indomitable leader whose very presence instilled terror in the hearts of enemies. Joy radiated from the crowd, their faces alive with hope and gratitude, caught in the spell of the day's celebration.

High atop the temple of Jupiter, Emperor Severus basked in the same jubilant spirit, joined by the Roman princes, Geta and Caracalla, his twin sons, all eagerly awaiting Acacius's arrival. Laughter and cheer rang out like festive bells, painting a tableau of optimism for the future.

Yet amidst the fervor and celebration, one heart was not aligned with the jubilant chorus. 

Marcus Justus Acacius wrestled with a storm of unsettling emotions. While the victory was undeniably sweet for Rome, a bitter taste lingered on his tongue. 

Inside, he simmered with frustration and discontent. Shadows clouded his thoughts; the thrill of his triumph felt hollow. He couldn’t escape the dark fantasy that had taken root in his heart—a yearning for death, an echo of despair that whispered sweetly of peace. 

He envisioned his lifeless body passing beneath the triumphal arch, believing it might convey a deeper significance than his living presence ever could.

But that notion, in this moment, felt like a cruel mirage in an unforgiving desert. What was left for him now but emptiness, a void peering back at the mask he wore for the thrumming, joyous masses?

The sword’s brutal strikes, the faint scratches from arrows, the battle scars etched upon his skin—each bruise and cut, still glistening with crimson remnants, tells a tale of relentless struggle. These visible wounds bear testament to his long, agonizing wait and evoke the depth of his longing for eternal rest.

Yet, fate has thwarted him once more. 

He found himself back in this city, a paradox of breathtaking beauty that thrived, yet concealed a well of sorrow beneath its surface. He had returned as a harbinger of victory, bringing new territories and a flicker of hope, but for himself, there was only void. He was a soldier, defined purely by duty, reduced to the relentless cycle of war and struggle.

Tomorrow would bring the same grind, as it always did. Day after day, he would rise to the call of arms, trapped in this existence until his weary soul finally departed from its mortal shell. Until that fateful moment, he walked as a living ghost, haunted and hollow. 

The pain of loss had transformed him, for it had been this way since the day he lost the one he loved most dearly, and perhaps it would always remain so. Deep down, he might have yearned for oblivion more than his fiercest enemies ever could. Yet, the fires of his fighting spirit, relentless and unyielding, refused to dim.   

It felt as though he was cursed, damned, ensnared by divine forces that reveled in his struggle — a pawn in a game that pit him against his own fate. Mars, the god of war, must have wielded his destiny with cruel hands, stripping away his heart and filling the gaping void left in its place with a relentless tide of pain, turmoil, and unquenchable rage.

The following day, as the resonant echoes of the Colosseum games, held in his honor, continued to reverberate through the streets, Marcus found himself immersed in the elegant atmosphere of the evening banquet. The air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of spiced wine and savory roasts, yet he felt like an outsider, trapped in a performance he neither wanted nor understood. Banquets and grand gatherings had never been his domain; he was an island amidst a sea of laughter and merriment.

His social connections were tenuous at best—a woman who was his father's second wife and his half-brother shared their deceased father's vast villa. He remained a mere shadow in their presence, offering nothing of himself except the occasional nod. Only his brother, Julius, his father's son from a second marriage, was a solitary beacon of understanding in Marcus's otherwise lonely existence.

Rumors clung to him like ivy on crumbling stone, painting him as a frigid, soulless warrior. The tale of his coldness often traced back to the haunting loss of his mother in childhood, yet the truth lay deeper, buried beneath layers of unspoken grief.

"General Acacius," a voice rang out, cutting through the revelry. Severus approached him, the gleeful cheers of the crowd fading into the background as he placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder.

“Emperor Severus," Marcus replied, straightening to salute, the laurel crown still uncomfortably perched upon his brow—an ornament he detested.

"I hear the medicus has been tending to your wounds. You owe it to yourself to find rest now; no new wars loom on the horizon. Our foes cower in fear before the prowess of our expansive territories, all thanks to you, my glorious commander,” Severus proclaimed, his expectant smile radiating insincerity.

Marcus remained a stone wall, responding only with a slight nod. Nearby, the young princes Geta and Caracalla watched him, their expressions a blend of awe and envy, their ambivalence swirling around him like shadows.

“While you recover, I need you to contemplate another matter,” Severus continued, his tone shifting with purpose, eyes flicking toward the animated guests. “You’ve earned the title of general, and it is imperative that you embody that honor. I envision a worthy marriage for you—one that reflects your esteemed status.”

The tension in Marcus’s features tightened, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the emperor. “I intend to arrange a union for you with a woman deserving of a general’s stature. I have my sights set on Lady Octavia, the eldest daughter of Consul Sextus. Her family traces an illustrious lineage among the Roman patricians, steeped in history and prestige. And I daresay they boast a legacy known for producing fruitful descendants,” he added with a hint of jest.

Marcus’s eyes, cold and unyielding, settled upon the beautiful, charming woman beside the senator, her allure seemingly reduced to mere decoration. 

He felt nothing.

The wine glass nestled in his hand suddenly felt far more inviting than any prospect of romance. "What say you?” Severus pressed, confidence bleeding through his words.

“I am honored, Your Highness,” Marcus responded, his voice steady yet underscored with reluctance.

“Should I take that as a yes?”

“With all my heart, no.”

Severus’s brow furrowed, caught in a limbo between amusement and frustration. “You’ve reached this age without a wife. If not now, when? Or is your heart entangled elsewhere?”

Marcus shook his head, the familiarity of this conversation wrapping around him like a well-worn cloak. There was comfort in the predictability. “I am a soldier, eager for the next battle. I would never want to make Senator Sextus’s beloved daughter a widow. Lady Octavia deserves a far richer union than I could offer.”

Severus exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon them. “Or are the rumors true? Is your heart still bound by grief?”

Then he saw a flicker in Marcus's eyes, a brief spark of something unnameable, before the mask fell back into place. “What can I say? People will always talk. As I said, I have no such intentions, nor will I. My duty lies with serving Rome, you, and your sons. That is my happiness.”

Severus drew a troubled breath, disappointment washing over his features. “I hadn’t expected such a sharp rebuttal. You remain a steadfast soldier; that much is clear.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “What about Lucilla? I thought there was some chemistry brewing between you two. Although she is no longer young enough for childbearing, that’s why I didn’t suggest her. Would you hesitate to marry her simply because she was the lover of your former commander? Surely, she would choose you as her protector; after all, she shows weakness for soldiers, I presume.”

“I would never allow such thoughts to bloom regarding Lady Lucilla, nor would I presume,” Marcus’s tone cut through the air, sharper than the gladius resting at his side.

Severus, sensing the unyielding edge in Marcus's voice, took a measured sip of his wine, the edges of his mouth curling into a sardonic smile. “Very well, so be it. As my glorious and modest general wishes, I shall not press you further on the matter.”

Marcus dipped his head in gratitude, a flicker of relief breaking through his hardened demeanor. “I appreciate your understanding, Your Highness.”

One night, Acacius, the new general of Rome, sat alone in his barracks headquarters, trying to decide whom to choose as his second in command. His restless mind, always in motion, could not bear the silence that surrounded him. It was almost unheard of for a war-weary general to return to the barracks so soon after a battle to devote himself to the drudgery of duty. In fact, it was rare, perhaps unprecedented. It was astonishing that he would limit himself to mundane duties when he could have had anything he wanted. He could have spent the evening with any number of women from the pleasure houses, or ordered his men to bring them to him, but he didn't, didn't even think about it. This bizarre behaviour led to gossip among the soldiers in the barracks, many of whom could not believe it. After all, what man, especially an unmarried, handsome general, would do such a thing? It might have sparked rumours that he preferred men to women, were it not for an earlier event that had already dispelled such notions.

Suddenly, a voice shattered the stillness outside, echoing through the dimly lit barracks. At this late hour, only a handful of soldiers remained, their slumber deep and untroubled. When Acacius noticed the lack of sentinels, an uneasy instinct stirred within him, compelling him to grasp the hilt of his sword. His instincts, finely tuned by years of combat, alerted him to danger just as a dark figure leaped from the rooftop, descending like a shadow. In a swift motion, he overpowered the masked attacker, enveloped in a black robe that concealed their identity. But Acacius was not alone in facing danger; from the depths of the night, more cloaked figures emerged, their intentions as sinister as the darkness that surrounded them, all eager to bring the general down.

It was a very despicable attack, there were about six of them and they chose the darkest hour of the night. A group obviously with military training who had come specifically to kill him. He wouldn't have had a hard time fighting against them if he hadn't been so tired. But he still managed to overpower four of them with skill and agility, with accurate sharp blows and lethal cuts. 

After a long resistance his strength began to fail and he received a cut on his shoulder and one of them managed to knock him down. But even on the ground he cut another one. Then the last one, in a split-second after his attack, aimed for Marcus' chest and stabbed him with the knife he drew with his other hand. Marcus was fast, he grabbed his hand first with one hand but the knife was going deeper, piercing his armor and then the skin and strong pectoral muscle just below it.

He gasped, moaned, groaned with sharp pain, with rage. 

With the instinct of survival he grabbed the attackers knife, this time with both hands, but in that moment he understood.

When the sharp metal pierced his ribs and reached his heart, when he felt the wave of blood rushing to his throat.

Even in that state he killed his attacker with a short knife, which he found by groping on the ground with his other hand.

But it was too late.

He coughed, followed by a bloody eruption from his mouth. The blood from the cut on his chest didn't stop, it was like a river.

But it was a relief, like a steady release, a fleeting moment of freedom—almost. The very moment he had long anticipated had finally arrived.

So this is what death feels like, he pondered, gazing up at the half-blackened moon suspended in the inky dark sky. The pain had been unbearable; it clawed at his insides with merciless intensity. Yet, in a strange twist of fate, he felt nothing as his body surrendered to its finality. His ears fell silent, and a profound numbness enveloped him. The pain had vanished.

A blink of an eye.

Darkness.

Another blink.

And suddenly, he felt again.

How could this happen? What did it mean? 

Then he saw it—the familiar visage of someone he hadn’t encountered in ages.

Maximus.

A serene smile graced his lips, reminiscent of days long past.

“True. Elysium. I must have ascended there,” he thought.

 Maximus shook his head, as if he had heard the silent longing behind his words.

“Not yet, brother,” he whispered, his voice gentle yet firm. “Your time has not yet come.”

Marcus frowned, confusion etching lines across his brow. “But why?” 

Maximus’s expression shifted, dimming like a candle flickering in the wind. “Or have you forgotten your prayer, your supplication?”

The depths of confusion deepened within Marcus. “My prayer…” he murmured, trying to grasp the fading memory.

“Your prayer was answered, child.”

That voice—it was unlike anything he had encountered.

It wasn't Maximus, he was now gone at his sight.

The sound that transcended humanity; it could not be earthborn or mortal. It was an ethereal quality, a melodic and divine sound that ignited every nerve in his body, powerful enough to raise goosebumps and destructive enough to permeate every cell of his being. The tone held both confusion and promise, intertwining hope and fear.

Suddenly, light began to pour forth around him, casting everything in a radiant glow, while a gentle wind kissed his face. 

Another blink of an eye.

His body felt as though it were being drawn forward, tethered to the swift pull of an invisible chariot.

But instead of pain, there was only the caressing touch of the wind.

Then another blink.

He found himself still lying on the ground, and once again, he raised his gaze to the moon, a celestial sentinel in the dark sky. This time, it was shrouded in total darkness, its edges enveloped in a halo of brilliant white light. As though awakening from a deep slumber, his senses returned in a rush; first, he felt his heart start beating once more, as if claws that had pierced him were now pulled away. Then the warm breeze danced over his skin, breathing life back into him. Control of his body surged back.

With disbelief coursing through him, he turned his head. What he saw was astonishing. Light flooded the landscape, blinding in its intensity—so much that the stars themselves seemed to vanish against its brilliance. He was taken aback when he stood up and touched his own body. His armor had tears where cuts had been, yet there was no blood—no trace of his former suffering. He could breathe easily, and a newfound strength surged through him, more potent than he’d ever known.

He was miraculously, completely healed.

It felt like…

Rebirth.

It should have been a miracle, a divine blessing. Yet he wrestled with surprise and disbelief, knowing he had seldom uttered even a single prayer in his life. Anger boiled within him for the gods; why should they reward him after all?

Was this reprieve the reason he couldn't set foot in Elysium?

How had his prayer been answered then?

It was all so strange. The Pantheon loomed nearby; some of the structures were familiar while others stood oddly illuminated, foreign and surreal.

Perhaps this was a realm of torment.

Just then, something occurred that cemented his apprehension.

He heard footsteps—soft yet deliberate—approaching from behind, followed by a feminine voice that sliced through the air with unexpected sharpness.

When he turned, disappointment washed over him like a cold wave. 

This was not what he had envisioned. This was not his prayer.

Surely, this must be a punishment.

Before him stood a woman dressed in garments unlike anything he had seen before. Anger flared within him again as he noted the disdainful grimace on the woman's face; she hissed a phrase that was foreign to his ears. 

“What the fuck?” the woman exclaimed, her tone dripping with contempt.

Yes, he was undeniably trapped in a place of torment, and he realized with growing dread that his suffering was only just beginning.

***Italy, Rome, 2025***

Earlier that day.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” The words tumbled from your lips as panic washed over you, eyes zeroing in on the cruelly bright numbers glowing on the clock: 7:45. You sprang out of bed like a rocket, hastily shedding your pajamas and tossing them behind you, landing who-knows-where in the fray of your cluttered room. Clothes lay in chaotic heaps, sketches of costumes scattered like fallen leaves, remnants of your frenzied creative process. You had been drowning in work on the movie set, and though you promised yourself time and again to clean up, that day didn't afford you a moment to spare. With a hasty comb through your tousled hair, you bolted for the door.

But just as you reached the door, you realized you had forgotten your bag. You backtracked, grabbed it, and hurried out again. In your rush, you slammed your sister's door twice to wake her. “Lizzie! Hurry up, or you’ll be late for school!” 

The sound of a scientific discussion filled the air, coming from either the TV or her laptop: "Time is characterized as a motion; however, it is fundamentally impossible to traverse backward. Moreover, to progress forward necessitates the existence of a specific negative mathematical function. Nevertheless, from a mathematical standpoint, there is no inherent rationale preventing such movement. This phenomenon illustrates the complexities associated with the concept of time as described in Einstein’s theory…"

“Ugh, not this again,” you muttered under your breath. Your sister was a total science fiction junkie and often had those brainy shows on first thing in the morning. 

“Hey, nerd! Turn that off and get to breakfast, now!” you called out. 

Moments later, she emerged, phone in hand, video chatting with a friend. “Yeah, it’s been a crazy day,” she yawned, plopping down at the table. You rolled your eyes at her. Worst of all was having both a science geek sister and a best friend who was just as obsessed. 

“Every damn morning...” you grumbled while munching on your toast. 

She eyed the nearly burnt toast you’d made and poked it with her finger. “I’d better eat at school,” she remarked.  

You had to agree; you never quite mastered the art of cooking. The more skilled you became at drawing and sewing, the worse you were in the kitchen. It was almost tragic that you couldn't even toast a simple piece of bread. 

“Sorry, I was in a rush, honey,” you replied apologetically. 

“You can’t give a proper toast, even when you’re not in a rush,” she replied with a smirk. “The real issue is that you just can’t let things go.”  

“Hey, how about being a little nicer to your sister?” you said, trying to defend yourself.

“But you’ve been seriously cruel to this poor bread!” she teased, pretending to listen to it. “What’s that?” she joked, acting like she was having a conversation with the toast. “It says it’s going to sue you!”  

You narrowed your eyes and grabbed the tongs, playfully pointing them at her. “If you want to avoid the same burnt fate, you should run to school now!” 

She held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m teleporting!” she declared, leaping to her feet, snatching her bag, and sprinting out the door, making you giggle as you followed her. 

You took another tentative bite of the almost burned toast and scrunched your face, nudging it away. “Oh man, the next time I walk into the kitchen, it’ll just be to tackle the dishes,” you joked, embracing your cooking woes with a laugh.

As you drove with a mouthful of croissant, you tuned into the radio, soon catching the latest world news.

“On this sunny spring day in Rome, the city is buzzing with life once again, full of energy and charm. This magnificent, romantic city never truly sleeps and is always teeming with tourists.”

You flipped to another channel.

“Tonight, around 1 AM, there’s an exciting celestial event on the horizon. Known scientifically as the ‘Total Lunar Eclipse’ and popularly nicknamed the ‘Blood Moon,’ this event will be visible from Italy and other parts of Europe. Unfortunately, folks in North and South America and Eastern Europe won’t get a glimpse.”

“Just what we need—more tourists,” you muttered under your breath. 

Historic sites were already packed to the brim, a reality you faced almost daily. While most filming typically took place away from the city, a brief scene was scheduled to be shot near the Pantheon, drawing you back for three consecutive days. Permission to film at this busy location had only been granted by the Ministry of Culture after 6 PM, adding a layer of tension to the crew’s dynamic. Everyone was eager to wrap up filming quickly over those three days, leaving you with some errands to tackle before heading back in the evening.

Your first stop? The hospital. 

Yes, the hospital. Your father had been in a coma for ten years following an accident—the same tragic event that had taken your mother. You visited him every day. Your family had moved from the States to Italy when you were just five, and while you adapted to the language and culture fairly quickly, the accident forced you into a dual role, needing to be both a mother and father to your younger sister.

As you pulled up to the hospital, you checked your watch—only thirty minutes left until you had to head to the set. You placed the fresh flowers you had picked up from the florist into a vase in your father’s room and began your usual update about your day. Although talking to someone who couldn’t hear you felt a bit silly, it brought you comfort. When Givorni, a member of the hospital board who knew your father, stepped into the room, he brought unsettling news.

“Look, honey, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but it’s been over ten years now. The head doctor mentioned that the chances of him waking up are getting slimmer, and soon, you may have to make a tough decision.”

How could you let him go, your father? You stuck to your resolve, as you had every time the doctors suggested there was no hope. You wouldn’t pull the plug on him. Maybe one day he would wake up—you held onto that hope. But, of course, these decisions came at a price; paying for his hospitalization meant you had to work more than one job.

You threw yourself into work, juggling multiple jobs to keep afloat. The design gigs you found online were mostly project-based—some involved theater costumes, others were special designs for wealthy families, and a few focused on accessory design. Yet, nothing compared to working on a film set. Despite the exhaustion, the pay was decent, and you gained invaluable lessons under the head designer, essential for your career advancement. You knew that hard work was necessary to eventually rise to the role of head designer or costume supervisor.

On set, you forged strong connections with others, often reuniting for films or documentaries with similar themes. Another perk of being on set was the chance to mingle with famous actors and actresses. They weren’t always what they seemed; some were charming in front of the camera but difficult behind the scenes, while others proved surprisingly kind. However, some would overstep and forget your role as a costume designer.

You still recall that time when an actress had you rush out in the rain to grab her some coffee, only to scold you because it had gotten cold by the time you brought it to her.

Cruel bitch.

Despite being part of the cast, you chose not to watch the film afterward out of sheer annoyance.

During a break before the night scene, the other girls on set invited you to lunch. Although the food provided on set was good, space was tight, and meals were only served at 6 PM before filming resumed. So, you were relieved when they suggested stepping outside for some junk food. As you exited the trailer, you found yourself surrounded by tourists, eagerly snapping photos with their phones, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars. The security team was struggling to manage the crowd, a daunting challenge that would only ramp up over the next three days—all for a mere ten minutes of footage.

“Girls, check that out!” One of them pointed to a shop on the way back from lunch, its neon sign flashing: palm reading, tarot reading - book your session today.

Love, Destiny, Fate.

“What do you think? Should we try a tarot reading?” she asked, her tone pleading.

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, guys, these things are a joke; they don’t really do anything.”

To your annoyance, they insisted. 

“Let’s just do it for fun, please!” 

“Yeah, come on! Just this once!” 

You had always been a skeptic about such superstitions, especially after the tragic loss of your parents and your sister's autism diagnosis following that incident. You had more than enough reasons to doubt fate, luck, or even love.

As the girls eagerly paid for their tarot readings—a decision you thought was a complete waste of money—you decided to just watch. But eventually, their relentless begging wore you down, and you agreed to join them so they wouldn’t be disappointed.

When it was your turn, the fortune teller—a woman dressed in an eclectic manner—shuffled the cards and asked you to draw a few. As she laid them out in a specific spread, her expression changed immediately. “Oh dear, you’ve been feeling quite overwhelmed and drained,” she began. She turned over another card. “You may come off as a tough nut, but deep down, you really want to help others.” Then she revealed a third card. “Hmm, it seems like success is on the horizon. You’re working hard, and soon you’ll start to see the fruits of your labor.”

“I hope so,” you muttered.

When she flipped the next card, her eyes sparkled. “Ah, there’s a man here. He’ll enter your life in a way that he’ll soon become your whole world.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, yeah, right,” you scoffed.

“Seriously, trust me,” she insisted.

“That sounds nice,” one of the girls said eagerly.

“What’s he like?” another chimed in, excitement in her voice.

“Come on, girls,” you sighed in exasperation.

The fortune teller frowned. “Love is in the cards, okay? Let’s just enjoy this.”

Rolling your eyes again, you tried to keep your cool as frustration bubbled inside you.

She continued, flipping over another card. “Look here! Again, it’s all about this guy! Trust me, he’ll settle right in the center of your heart!”

"Woooo!"

“Oh, how lucky you are!” the girls exclaimed.

As your irritation peaked, you struggled to maintain your composure.

The woman pressed on, “This man is...,” she hesitated, as if struggling with a foreign language. “from...,” she raised an eyebrow, “the past.”

“From the what, past?” you asked, intrigued despite yourself.

“Oh, it must be your ex or something,” one of the girls guessed.

"I sure hope not," you grunted.

“Maybe, but it’s a new kind of love,” the fortune teller hesitated, seeming surprised by something.

“What nonsense is this?” you pouted, pursing your lips.

Seemingly annoyed, she replied, “My insights are always spot on, sweetheart.”

Despite your skepticism, you waited as she looked at the last card. “Ah, you’ll have to make a choice,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. “You can either stay with him, or you won’t.”

Okay, that was enough.

“Again with the love nonsense? Don’t you see anything about my career?” you scoffed.

“I’m just interpreting the cards you drew, dear,” she said defensively.

You sighed and stood up. “I don’t need love. I don’t need a man; I need money.”

As the shoot finally wrapped up, it was time to tidy up for the crew, and you found yourself chatting with the girls about tarot readings while you worked. They kept inquiring about your past relationships, but you had none to share. Aside from a brief fling in high school, you hadn't been in a serious relationship. You didn’t want to bring up that one encounter, which had ended in frustration. The guy who left you at the altar would occasionally show up at your door drunk, and you’d promptly kick him out. End of story.

A man from your past, but a new love?

What the hell?

That seemed as impossible as the sun rising in the west.

Once all your tasks were complete, exhaustion hit you, and heading home felt like an uphill battle. You made your way through security to your buddy Leo. “Evening went off without a hitch, huh?” you asked.

“Yeah, just had to deal with a few overzealous fans tonight, but now that our big star's gone, they won’t be coming back,” he replied, propping his feet up on the opposite chair while sipping his beer. “Want some?”

“No, thanks. No moonlight tonight?” you quizzed.

“Didn't you hear there’s an eclipse?” 

“Eclipse?” 

“Yep, if you look carefully, you can see it. Guess you’ve been too busy to catch the news.”

Rolling your eyes, you replied, “Story of my life.” Then you remembered that morning when you first heard about it on the radio.

You walked a bit further outside, fiddling with your phone's camera settings to capture a glimpse of the eclipse. As you focused on the moon being gradually engulfed by the Earth’s shadow, you heard murmurs behind you. Turning toward the bushes, you spotted three girls. “What’s going on? Who are you?” you asked.

They jumped to their feet, looking nervous and frightened.

“Ah, I see, you’re fans too, huh? You must’ve snuck in; good job, Leo,” you muttered. “Alright, girls, time to head out. Our big star has left. You really think he’s just hanging around in a trailer or something? He’s off at a hotel.”

Disappointed, they exchanged glances.

“Which hotel is he at?” one of them asked, grinning.

You sighed and grabbed her arm. “Move! Get out of here, fast!”

After escorting the girls to Leo and the security team, you made your way back to the trailer, where a nightmare awaited you. It was an absolute mess—fabrics and materials were strewn everywhere, and scattered papers littered the floor. Who had created this chaos?

When you asked one of your colleagues, he told you it was the props manager and his team who had left the mess behind. They must have mistaken the design trailer for another. Some papers looked ancient, clearly part of a realistic set design, with a few appearing to be genuine antiques. Recognizing they would be used as props, you took them over to the other trailer. Just as you were about to leave, a sudden gust of wind blew one of the papers from your hands, and as you bent to retrieve it, a strange sensation washed over you.

“Whoa.”

What was that odd feeling?

You carefully picked up the scrolls and placed them into the box, something caught your eye. Drawn to the writing, you felt an inexplicable familiarity, as though you had encountered it before. A wave of emotion washed over you, and your eyes began to well up. But why were you feeling this way?

The script was in Latin—an old form, likely dating back to ancient Roman times. Curiosity sparked within you. What could it possibly say? With no one around, you reasoned that there was no harm in taking a closer look.

You fished your phone out of your pocket and opened the language translation app you had downloaded earlier, eager to decipher the text. Aiming the camera at the writing, you waited patiently. After a few moments, the app began to translate, though the phrases came through fragmented.

“Please... accept my sacrifice... I offer you..." It was all pieces meant nothing but then you realized that sentence: "If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

Another what? Life? Time?

“What on earth is this?” you muttered to yourself, realizing that the translation seemed nonsensical. “Stupid app.”

Suddenly, hearing footsteps approach, you panicked and accidentally tore the edge of the paper.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

Frantically, you tucked it into the back pocket of your shorts. Better to hide it than risk being caught holding it.

“What are you doing here?” the props manager snapped, glaring at you. His expression shifted to shock when he noticed the decor papers you had just brought in. “Hey, you didn’t mess with these, did you? Some are authentic; we barely got permission from the collectors' family, and they need to be delivered the day after tomorrow.”

“Are they real ones?” you asked, pretending to be innocent.

“Yes! Please don’t tell anyone—the director must have lost his mind. He asked me to use the authentic ones as props. We had no time to find replicas. You didn’t touch them, did you?”

You nodded. “No, of course not,” you lied. You had no idea why you’d even done that. “But shouldn’t these be in a museum or something?”

“No, they’re antiques, imported specially from a private collection.”

And now you’d ripped one of them.

You were really in hot water. Exiting the trailer, you returned to yours. When you pulled out the antique—likely priceless—that you had stuffed in your pocket, you felt a wave of dread.

It was crumpled and had a torn edge, but fortunately, the writing remained intact, albeit looking a mess.

But it wasn’t entirely your fault.

Why had they sent the wrong trailer?

Oh right. Wrong trailer.

Couldn’t the crew member who dropped it off have mixed it up somewhere?

Yeah, that was a reasonable thought.

At least they could believe that—until you fixed it.

You really should have contacted your friend Katie, the antiquities expert at the General Directorate of Museums, right away.

It was just Latin script on the paper with bullshit, but that didn’t change the fact that it was an invaluable artifact.

You were so fucked.

The rest of the night unfortunately took a turn for the worse after that call came in. The antique paper you had accidentally torn was missing, and everyone was turning the place upside down looking for it. But how could you admit that? Confessing it could get you fired, and it didn’t really matter that it was someone else's family heirloom. After all, it wasn't your fault. It was all the mistake of whoever had brought it to the trailer in the first place.

You tried to reassure yourself as you pretended to help with the search. While you were busy suppressing your guilt, you suddenly heard a sound. But there was no one in sight—was it one of those girls again?

“Oh, I’m really tired. Whoever you are, just show yourself now,” you called out as you walked forward. The eclipse had hidden the moonlight, plunging everything into darkness. The only illumination came from the distant lights of some buildings ahead, but it was still shadowy where you stood. As you approached to the sound, you caught sight of a shadowy figure with back turned, draped in a long black cloth.

A strange feeling washed over you. You crept closer, and the odd sensation intensified. 

It was a man—yes, definitely a man—well-built, in a black robe, holding… a sword?

Your eyes widened in shock. 

“What the fuck?"

He turned to face you, and the first thing you felt was a perplexing déjà vu, as if you knew him but couldn’t place him. His intense gaze and striking features seemed familiar, yet you couldn’t put your finger on it. And those clothes… 

"Who the fuck are you?” 

Wait a minute.

This wasn’t your first encounter with someone like him. He had to be one of those extras—probably overworked and known for causing trouble on set. He must not have bothered to change out of his costume and was relishing this unexpected role.

“Look, man, I don’t want any trouble, but I really need you to take off that costume. I’m responsible for the outfits, and if anything happens to it, my paycheck will take a hit, okay? Didn’t anyone give you a heads-up?” You stepped closer, but he just stood there, staring at you like a statue.

Taking a closer look, you noticed the armor beneath his robe was unlike anything you’d ever seen on set. Had they started filming something new without you? That couldn’t be right—or worse, what if he had stolen it? Wonderful. You reached out to inspect it further, but in an instant, he grabbed your wrist, spun you around, and shoved you away like you were nothing.

“Aaaah!” You winced, clutching your sore wrist and glaring at him in frustration. “Are you out of your mind? Get that costume off now! Can’t you hear me? Are you deaf or something?” 

He sighed, casually wiping his sword with the hem of his robe and sheathing it as if he did it every day. He performed the action with such style that even a seasoned actor might be impressed.

“I see you’re really into character. Nice job!” you said with a hint of sarcasm. “But as I said, I need you to take it off. Now.”

“What kind of shameless woman are you to demand that I undress?” 

What the hell was that? His accent, thick and unfamiliar, rolled off his tongue in a way you had never encountered. It was as if a whisper from another age echoed through each word he spoke.

“Undressing? Oh God, what kind of maniac are you?” You sighed. “This is your last warning; I’ll call security.”

He frowned, as if hearing the term for the first time. “Security…” he muttered to himself, clearly annoyed.

Just then, you heard someone call your name. Turning around, you spotted Leo and hurried over to him, grabbing his arm. “Leo, that guy seems either like a maniac or he’s drunk. I think he might be an extra, but he could also be an intruder.”

Leo looked just as taken aback as you were. “I’ve never seen him before. Is that a sword?”

“It’s probably fake,” you muttered.

The man glared, brandishing his sword as he pointed at you. "You two, tell me where I am."

“Yeah, he’s definitely drunk,” you whispered to Leo. 

Leo played it cool. “Listen, man, I need you to come with me right now. I need to figure out why you broke into the film set.”

“The film… set...” he repeated to himself in confusion.

“Why is he acting like he’s never heard of it?” Leo asked you, both of you now staring at him nervously.

“I told you he’s crazy or maybe psycho. Do you think he could have escaped from a mental hospital or something?”

“Let’s hope not. But what would he be doing here? If I could get the cuffs on him without freaking him out, we could call the police.”

“Great plan, go for it,” you urged, giving him a gentle nudge to encourage action.

As Leo pulled the handcuffs from his waistband, the strange man eyed him suspiciously, as if he posed a threat. “I’m going to put these on you now, alright?” 

The man's face remained expressionless, cold yet menacing.  “And what if I refuse?” 

You gulped. “What are you doing, mister? He’s the security guard—don’t make this any harder.” 

“You asked for this,” Leo said angrily, pulling out his baton. 

You were taken aback when the man tightened his grip on his sword in response as Leo stepped closer. 

“Listen, we all know that sword’s fake—”

Out of nowhere, he sliced through Leo’s baton with a swift, precise motion.

You froze for a moment, unable to process what had just happened.

Leo turned on his heels and bolted. “Police! I’ll call the police!” 

“Where do you think you’re going? Wait for me!” you shouted in panic but a hand suddenly grabbed your arm. The man’s sword was still clutched in his grip, and you couldn’t help but notice the red stains on it. Could it be b-blood, real blood? Fear began to creep in, and you started to tremble. 

“Look, please don’t hurt me! I’m really sorry for calling you crazy, a psycho, and a maniac. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m begging you, forgive me!” you said, almost sobbing.

"I assure you that I have no intention of causing any harm. I need to uncover the truth of my surroundings. Please, help me understand where I am, what is this place?"

What the hell? It was like he’d lost his memory or something or his mind. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, trying to come up with a way to wriggle free. 

"I find myself in a familiar location; however, the surrounding environment appears to have undergone significant changes."

You leaned closer to him. “Are you sure you’re not just drunk?” 

You swallowed hard as he shot you an angry glance. 

“There he is!” 

“Let her go now!” 

Leo and the others had arrived, guns aimed and ready. 

“I suggest you surrender, sir. Just do as they say, and they’ll help you. If you really can't remember where you came from, they can sort it out,” you urged him, hoping to de-escalate the situation. 

“Put down your sword now,” Leo commanded. 

“They'll help me, you say?” the man muttered, his gaze fixed on them. 

This might be your best chance to get him to back down. “Yes, definitely. The police will help you,” you replied, offering him a reassuring smile. 

“Police,” he repeated, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

He was behaving like a little kid, learning new words by repeating them.

“I will release this woman,” he stated, finally sheathing his sword. Everyone took a deep breath.

“He'll surrender,” you relayed to your friends, then turned back to the man. “But I need to take your sword back to where you got it.” 

“The gladius is mine.” His tone was resolute, as if the sword had belonged to him for years. 

However, if he had stolen it from the prop crew, you could land yourself in a heap of trouble, far worse than the mess you’d made with the paper. 

“But it poses a danger to them. If they can’t trust you, they can’t help you. So, please hand me the sword,” you insisted. 

He paused, contemplating your words, then took the sword scabbard from his waist and looked at you sternly before handing it to you. “Promise me you’ll protect this with your life.”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “What is this? Are we filming a movie or something?” 

He grabbed your arm and shook you. “Promise me.” 

As soon as you picked it up, you staggered under its weight. It was a real sword indeed. With a sigh, you relented. “Okay, okay, I promise.” 

As he relinquished the sword as if it were the most precious thing to him, Leo and the others looked on, intrigued, surprised. 

He must’ve truly lost his mind or something. Watching him leave with the security guards, you couldn’t shake a sense of curiosity about what he’d been through. After they were gone, people who had heard the commotion on the film set gathered around you. This was far more interesting than searching the area for antique parchment, and they listened in fascination as you recounted the bizarre encounter.

As the security guards urged Marcus to speak, his gaze was fixed on the screens in the security room. He was mesmerized by the footage playing out before him. What he saw astonished him—moving images flickering in small boxes, an experience he had never imagined and could never have anticipated.

“Hey, look up here!” Leo snapped his fingers, trying to regain Marcus's attention. “What kind of freak are you? Don’t you have any ID or something on you?”

Marcus didn’t even seem to register the question; he was too transfixed on the screens. Leo took a deep breath, his anxiety bubbling over. “Listen, mate, for us to help you, you need to spill the beans. What were you doing on set? How did you manage to sneak in? And where did you get those clothes and that sword? You know it’s illegal to carry a real sword in this country, right?”

Just then, he spotted you on one of the monitors. The footage showed you walking out the outer door, leaving the premises.

“That woman,” Marcus murmured, “that woman said you would help me, and I gave her my sword in return.” 'She promised," he thought.

“Alright, we’re trying to help you, but you have to answer my questions,” Leo insisted.

“Tell me how to reach there,” Marcus urged, pointing at the screen. “Is that another life? I need to go there.”

Leo and the other guards exchanged glances, bewildered. “What did you just say? Another life? Come on, what kind of joke is this? ‘There’ is right outside, you fool!”

Suddenly, Marcus sprang to his feet, and Leo stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Hey, you’re not going anywhere until the police get here!”

With a roll of his eyes, Marcus swiftly grabbed Leo and shoved him aside, causing the guards to stumble into one another in the chaos. 

“Hey! Stop!” they shouted after him as he dashed away.

You were examining the sword in your hand as you stepped off the set and into the parking lot toward your car. It was undeniably real, yet it looked so pristine. Perhaps the scabbard had been restored; its craftsmanship clearly reflected a lot of effort. You had seen replicas before, but this one was strikingly accurate, almost like a genuine ancient artifact.

However, according to the set crew, the sword wasn’t part of the props. You were supposed to take it to the museum tomorrow—maybe they would decide what to do with it. You opened the car door, placed your bag and the sword in the back seat, and shut the door. But just then, you noticed him—the crazy man. He was sprinting toward you.

That lunatic.

You quickly flung open the driver’s door, jumped into the seat, and turned the key in the ignition. As the engine roared to life, Marcus approached, bewildered; he had never encountered a car door before. Taking advantage of his astonishment, you drove onto the bustling street, and to your surprise, he dashed after you, but soon he captivated by the scene.

Standing there, mesmerized, he absorbed the chaotic sight of the vehicles surrounding him—their strange forms, the symphony of sounds, and the dazzling lights. In that moment of realization, he understood: in this extraordinary place, horses were no longer needed for riding. These remarkable machines forged their own path, free from the constraints of the past time, his time.

A taxi pulled up, and the driver, who must have seen way too many movies, rolled down his window and leaned out. “Hey! Do you want to catch her?”

Marcus was taken aback but nodded eagerly.

“Jump in then, man!” The cabbie said, chuckling at Marcus's surprised expression as he opened the back door for him. He thought this strange carriage didn’t need a horse, but seeing how you had gotten in earlier made it a bit easier for him. He climbed in and followed the cabbie’s instructions, pulling the door shut behind him. He was astonished when the cabbie hit the gas and effortlessly steered the vehicle. Looking out the window, he couldn’t help but marvel at the unfamiliar street, the other cars—everything felt so foreign and unusual.

“Don’t worry, mate, we’ll catch your girlfriend!” the cabbie reassured him.

“Girl...friend…” Marcus mumbled under his breath, another strange word to add to his growing list.

“Awkward outfit choice, buddy. No wonder she ran away,” the cabbie laughed. “Did you try to surprise her like this? Maybe next time, try a Batman outfit—it worked with my girl.”

Another odd phrase and a joke that flew right over Marcus’s head.

After a short drive, the cabbie brought the car to a halt, noticing that your taxi had stopped as well. “There’s your girl!” he announced.

Turning his head, Marcus spotted you getting out of the other taxi and heading toward an apartment building. He tried to recall how the taxi driver had opened the door for him earlier. The cabbie noticed his bewilderment and smirked. “Seriously? You can’t open the door? You must be pretty drunk,” he teased. “Come on, mate, you’re gonna wanna dash now.”

“I owe you one, coachman,” Marcus said, grateful.

The cabbie laughed hard. “You owe me 26 euros, that’s right.”

Once again, Marcus encountered another strange term, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The moment the cabbie shouted at him, “Hey, you haven’t paid!” Marcus felt the pressure to hurry. He pressed the door shut, but the cabbie opened his window, yelling, “You didn’t pay!”

The honking alarms from the cars behind startled Marcus, but he stayed focused. “You didn’t pay!” the cabbie shouted again.

You turned around at the ruckus, nearly fainting when you spotted him.

“No way!” you exclaimed, worried.

As you hurried toward the apartment block, Marcus pulled out a denarius from a pouch on his belt and tossed it to the taxi driver. The cabbie caught it, turning it over in his hand, recognizing the face of Emperor Severus, which he swore he had seen in a museum. “What the hell is this? A prank? Where's the damn camera?” he muttered.

How could he still be chasing you? You reached into your bag for your keys. It was late, and the streets were nearly empty, but he appeared resolute in following you.

“Stop!” you called, holding your hand up.

You pulled your phone from your pocket. “Stop, or I’ll call the police!”

For your words to be taken as a threat, Marcus had to understand their meaning, and he didn’t, he had no idea. “Give me back my sword,” he demanded.

“Okay,” you replied, opening the car door and grabbing his sword. “Just take it and leave me alone.”

He reached for his sword, examining it, while you quickly grabbed your bag. Your hand searched for the pepper spray you kept for emergencies.

While you were rummaging, Marcus noticed a parchment in your bag.

“Okay, now can you go?” you said, turning to leave. “Good night.”

“Wait.”

“What now? I gave you your sword. Please, just leave me alone,” you whined.

“That parchment—let me see it.”

He noticed it?

“Why?” you asked, wary.

“I may have seen that before,” he murmured.

You were exhausted and just wanted this absurd night to end. Reluctantly, you handed it to him. As he read, his eyes widened in surprise.

“This...” He looked up at you in awe. “Did you read or spelled any of this, by any chance?”

“Yeah, so what?” you replied defensively.

“You’re the one who called me.”

You raised your eyebrows, baffled. “What did you just say? Why would I call you? I don’t even know you!”

He took a step toward you. “Those words—this is what brought me here, I’m certain.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you shot back, taking a step back yourself. “Look, I’m done with your nonsense, okay? Just leave me alone!”

"I need to return. Whether I traveled here or was brought here, I certainly need to head back to… my own time."

You erupted in laughter.

Did he really just say that? Maybe you were stuck in some ridiculous dream. “Seriously? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Tonight has been full of absurdities. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading home to rest, and I warn you—stay away from me.”

Just then, you heard your sister call out from the window.

“Get inside now!” you shouted at her. Fumbling with your keys, you opened the apartment door and stepped inside. The man remained outside, but you ignored him, shutting the door firmly behind you and starting up the stairs. As you climbed, he repeatedly scanned the words written on the paper, hoping to find a way back to his own time. 

But nothing happened.

Why had this girl—you—read it and made him arrive here? What was the secret to unlocking the path back?

For the first time in ages, you woke up not to the blaring sound of an alarm, but to the ping of your mobile phone. It was someone from the set, and they sounded quite anxious about the events from the night before. They informed you that a strange man had taken you hostage and assumed you must be feeling pretty shaken. As a result, you were given the day off. You felt a wave of relief; in fact, you were eager to see Katie and sort out the whole parchment mess, so this felt like a great opportunity.

After hanging up, you snuggled back under the blankets, but a sudden thought nagged at you—what if that man was still out there? He was a maniac, after all.

But could he be crazy enough to have spent the entire night on the street?

Reluctantly, you peeled yourself out of bed and peeked out the window. To your relief, there was no one in sight. However, you soon noticed a commotion below. People on the sidewalk were stopping, giggling, and snapping pictures of something. Straining to see from your high vantage point, you could only make out the awning of the pizza shop below.

“Could that lunatic be down there?” you wondered aloud.

His outfit undeniably could capture people's attention and spark their curiosity.

A voice inside you insisted, “Forget about it. You don't know him. It doesn't matter what he does.”

But your conscience nagged at you—maybe he was a mentally unwell person who truly needed help. Perhaps his family was searching for him. “Fuck it,” you muttered, sliding out of bed and throwing on your dressing gown as you made your way downstairs. 

Stepping out into the street left you in shock. There he was, just as you remembered.

It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare.

He was sitting on the ground, still dressed in that strange outfit from yesterday—his Roman soldier costume. Passersby, especially tourists, were snapping pictures. He didn’t react at all; his head hung low, probably accustomed to the attention after sitting there since morning. A pang of guilt hit you, seeing him like that. You inched closer. He caught sight of your feet first, then looked up at your face, and immediately stood up, turning his head away for some reason.

“Do you really have nowhere to go?” you asked. He shook his head. People were still stopping to take photos, but you warned them off and pulled at the man's arm. “Come with me, you pain in the neck.”

Just then, you heard a familiar voice call out—Enzo, the owner of the pizza place below your apartment. “Do you know this guy? He’s the reason I’ve got so many customers today,” he said with a grin.

You glanced inside the bustling restaurant. It was packed. You smiled at Enzo and explained that he was a friend and kept tugging the psycho along. 

“Where are we going?” he asked, clearly confused.

“To my apartment. Would you rather just sit on the street?”

His expression hinted that he would rather not engage. You walked in silence, hoping that Mrs. Costa, your landlady and the owner of the flat, wouldn’t spot you as you passed her door. Every glance at the peculiar man trailing behind you revealed an expression of wonder, as if he were seeing an apartment building for the very first time. When you reached your apartment, you unlocked the door and said, “Come in.”

He peeked inside, his eyes darting around. “Is this... where you live?” 

“Yeah, technically.” 

He seemed to avoid looking directly at you, which felt strange. What wasn’t strange about him was the real question. 

“It’s not safe for a woman to let a stranger into her home,” he remarked.

You raised your eyebrows playfully. “Seriously? Wasn’t it you who followed me here?”

“It wasn’t my intention,” he replied.

“What do you mean by intentions? I'm trying to help you!”

Suddenly, you heard a door open downstairs, and instinctively, you shoved him inside. “Get in quickly, or go back to the street. I really don’t care!” you snapped.

He complied, and just as you were about to close the door, you heard your landlady's voice call up to you. 

“Sweetie, is there a problem? I thought I heard a man's voice.”  

“Good morning, Mrs. Costa! Everything's fine, don’t worry.”  

“My ears must be deceiving me. Good morning, dear. I thought it was that man again.”

That man being your ex-fiancé, whom you'd kicked to the curb just last week. 

“No, he didn’t come. He can’t come back.” 

“Okay, cara mia, see you later.”

“See you.” 

You closed the door and let out a deep sigh. As you turned around, you nearly collided with the psycho who had followed you right behind. You stumbled, almost losing your balance, but he acted quickly, wrapping his arms around your waist. Both of you were taken aback by the sudden closeness.

“Who the hell is this guy?” your sister Lizzie asked, staring wide-eyed at the two of you.

He quickly pulled his hands back, and you stepped away. 

“Wait a minute, isn’t that the guy from last night?” she questioned.

“Don’t you have to get ready for school?” you responded, glancing at her.

“Don’t you have to get to work too?” 

“Nope, I’m off today.” 

“Oh, really?” She examined the man, they exchanged confused looks.

“This is my sister Lizzie, and this is... um... what’s your name again psycho?” you stammered. 

He didn’t answer, keeping his gaze averted. Lizzie looked between you both, clearly intrigued by what was unfolding.

“Do women in your world always walk around with their legs uncovered?” he whispered, leaning in close to your ear.

Ah, so that’s what the sidelong glances were all about. You glanced down at your short shorts. “Do you have to get weirder every second?” you snapped through clenched teeth.

“Or is he just a friend from the film set or something?” Lizzie chimed in as she returned with her bag.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s the outfit he’s wearing. That looks like a Roman soldier’s garb, probably a general’s,” she observed.

“Your sister is quite clever,” he said with a smile.

Your jaw dropped the first time you saw him smile. 

And it was also when you realized he was rather handsome.

What on earth?

Was it really time to think that?

“Anyway, I’m late for school. Bye.” 

“Bye, sweetie.” You shut the door and turned to him. “Are you seriously just going to stand there? Come inside.”

Suddenly, he grabbed his arm. “Could you hand me a piece of cloth?”

“What did you say? For what?”

He removed his black robe, and your eyes widened at the sight of blood running down his arm. “What happened to your arm?”

“A pugio grazed it.”

“A what?” you exclaimed.

“In a fight. Not here. Back in my time,” he explained.

“Here we go again,” you muttered as you headed to your room for the first aid kit. When you returned, he was in the living room, observing everything with his usual expression as if seeing it all for the first time.

You studied him before entering—his armor fit him as if he wore it daily, and he moved and spoke with a familiarity that was unsettling. 

Could he truly be from another time?

Did time travel actually exist?

If so, why had you never encountered it before?

And why was it happening to you?

Shaking your head, you tried to dismiss the ridiculous thought.

Come to your senses girl. 

You steered your thoughts back to logic. He was strange, or maybe just nuts; there had to be a rational explanation for this, had to be. 

“Why don’t you sit down? Let me take a look at your arm.”

“What’s this?”

“First aid kit. It’s the first time you’ve seen one, isn’t it? This is tincture of iodine. We need to apply it to the wound to prevent infection. I’ll bandage it too,” you said as if explaining to a child. You reached for the supplies and began cleaning the wound. It was deep, but he didn’t flinch as you treated it. Instead, he focused intently on your face, avoiding looking down at his injury.

“Acacius...” he murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“My name is Marcus Justus Acacius, commander of the Roman Legions, having recently been entrusted with the esteemed position of General of Rome."

Your jaw dropped.

He said it in such a way that it was difficult not to believe him.

How could he pull that off?

You bit your lip, stifling a laugh. “Of course you are, and I’m Queen Elizabeth, by the way. Nice to meet you, Mr. General.” As you extended your hand, it was clear he was unsure of what to do next with the handshake. With a sigh, you stood up after wrapping up his arm. 

“In this place, do you people really think everything is a joke?”

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but if you decide to go to the police, you must tell them everything. They’re the only ones who can truly help y—”

Suddenly, he seized your wrist. His rudeness was starting to grate on your nerves. “Read the parchment again. I need to get back to my own time; I’ve already lost too much of it here.”

“You can’t be serious.”

"I find myself in a precarious situation. Upon my initial arrival in this place, I believed I had entered a state of bliss akin to Elysium. However, I have come to realize that this environment is far worse than one might imagine. The Rome I once knew has vanished entirely; I am uncertain of how much time has elapsed, but it is clear that I cannot remain here. So please, read this.”

“Why not read it yourself?”

He released your arm. “I tried; it did not… work.”

“Maybe it’s because it doesn’t do shit and there's no such thing as time travel at all.”

“Listen, at this point, woman, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Read this at once. Someone betrayed me, and my brother might be in danger too. I need to return and find out. So spell it.”

“You must have a fascinating life. Fine, Mr. General. As you wish.”

You took the paper from him and reread the lines you had seen earlier. 

"If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

Marcus glanced around, a look of disappointment spreading across his face. “I’m still here.”

“Yes, you’re still here. I told you. Maybe you’ve got brain damage or something, and lost your memory or mind. There’s got to be a logical explanation though. Just come with me to the police station; the cops will help you.”

“What does ‘cops’ mean?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll see when you get there. Trust me, okay?”

He nodded. “You trusted me enough to let me into your house. I guess you’re the only one I can trust here.”

How could you have imagined things would become even more complicated once you stepped into the police station? 

“No ID, no passport, no fingerprints, no phone records in your name… no family, no home, and no birth record… nothing.” As the officer spoke, you found yourself wondering just how much more surprising this situation could get. 

“I was born in the year when Consul Postumius Albinus and Atilius Serranus were in power in the Senate.”

Everyone stared at Marcus in shock—officers paused their work, and even the criminals in the holding cell burst out laughing. The officer shook his head in disbelief as others struggled to control their laughter. You buried your face in your palms, mortified. The officer, clearly racked up, signaled to the other officers to seize Marcus by the arm. Then turned to you.

"Is he a refugee? Did he enter the country illegally? And let's not overlook the clothes he's wearing, which seem to match his strange way of speaking."

“Illegally? No,” You glared at the officer as they shoved Marcus into the holding cell. “Look, officer, I think this guy might be—” You gestured around your head, making a circular motion. “Have you checked the mental hospital records?”

“I told you, ma'am, there’s no record under the name he provided. I’d be surprised if there were any.”

“Are you really planning to keep him locked up?”

“He assaulted a security guard and vandalized a film set. He’s scheduled for court.”

“What if they drop the charges?”

“Then he’ll be released soon, but not without providing us with some form of ID.”

“Okay, thanks.” 

He looked so out of place in the cell, standing apart from the other criminals who were looking at him like he was from another planet. You felt a pang of guilt for bringing him there.

“You said they’d help me, but now they’ve locked me up. Are they going to execute me?”

“What? No, of course not! Look, I thought they’d be able to find your family with your name, but I was mistaken. Are you sure you have your name right?”

He shot you an incredulous look. “Why would I lie about my name?”

"Well, it sounds ancient and a bit strange. Just like you," you muttered.

“It’s complicated. You don’t have any ID or passport. I do have a plan to help you get out of here, but you might need to spend the night.”

He gripped the iron bars, thinking. “I can wait one night.”

“If you have amnesia or something, you need to shake it off and remember your family. Otherwise, you’ll end up a refugee, and I could find myself in here with you for trying to help.”

He frowned. “I don’t have any of those things.”

You exhaled a troubled sigh. Had he really lost his mind? Based on his appearance, he seemed to have Italian roots. His accent was odd but articulate; he couldn’t possibly be a refugee. 

“My bulla—why did they take it?”

"Bulla?"

He pointed to his neck. "The thing I was wearing."

“Ah, your medallion? Unfortunately, you can’t have accessories while in custody. It's good we left the sword at home, like I suggested,” you whispered, ensuring no one could overhear.

“That item is very important to me. I want you to take care of it, just like my sword, or maybe even more.”

“Look at you giving orders. I’m starting to think you really are a commander,” you joked.

But he stood there, still and serious. “It’s General,” he corrected you.

“Right, Mr. General,” you replied with a smirk, but he frowned. “Fine, I’ll take your precious medallion and head home. Tomorrow, I’ll chat with Leo, the security guard, and have them drop the charges against you. Who knows, maybe someone from your family will show up by then.”

“Will you return tomorrow?” 

“Yes, don’t worry.”

He nodded. "I trust you."

You felt goosebumps ripple down your spine at that deep tone. How could he express such conviction? He truly was an extraordinary character.

When you stepped into Katie's spacious office, filled with antiques, in the General Directorate of Cultural Heritage Protection and Museums, you still couldn’t shake the feeling that yesterday had been a dream. It was all too surreal. You shook your head as you glanced down at the medallion in your hand, a tangible sign of that extraordinary day with the mysterious man named Marcus.

It was hard to believe that everything actually happened. You hadn’t come here for him, but rather to discuss the parchment you had accidentally damaged. Katie, an expert in antiquities and assistant manager, was someone you trusted implicitly. She had known your parents well and had been incredibly supportive, particularly when she took your sister Lizzie under her wing every summer. Lizzie had been diagnosed with mild autism, but her intelligence shone brightly, and you were thankful to Katie for giving her a supportive environment.

After a brief catch-up about your father's health, you finally pulled the crumpled parchment from your bag. “Please tell me you can fix this.”

Katie examined the paper closely, putting on her glasses. “Wow, this is the real deal. The keeper must have taken great care of it, despite its age.”

“Yeah, until I got my hands on it,” you mumbled, feeling sheepish.

“Well, we’re lucky it didn’t tear all the way through the writing. But you really need to be more careful; this is a rare artifact.”

“I truly didn’t mean to,” you admitted, your embarrassment evident.

“It might take a couple of weeks,” she replied gently.

“What? I need it sooner! It's only torn a little; can't you just glue it?”

She shot you a look. “This isn’t like sewing a costume, you know. First, I need to analyze the type of material. To repair tears in parchment, I’ll need to use gelatin or other animal-based products, and I have to determine the right one. As for smoothing out the wrinkles, the entire document might need to be placed in a humidity chamber.”

You stared at her, wide-eyed. “Seriously? I had no idea restoring paper was that complicated.”

She chuckled. “Parchment isn’t like your everyday paper. It’s made from animal skins, and you should be grateful it’s not papyrus, which is made from plants. Parchment has some serious advantages, like being more durable in humid conditions and allowing writing on both sides. But if you need this so bad, I can whip up a replica for you; it might just fool the decor crew.”

“Oh, that would be amazing,” you replied, relieved.

She smiled and headed to a large cupboard brimming with various papers and parchments. “Here,” she said, returning with a similar piece of parchment. “This one looks a bit like yours.”

“Katie, thank you so much,” you said sincerely.

“Anytime.”

“You can read what’s written on it, right?” you asked, curiosity piqued. “I looked it up on my phone, but you know, the scriptwriter is really after authenticity.”

“Of course,” she said, glancing at the paper. “It’s a prayer.”

“A prayer?” you echoed.

“Yep, according to this, it’s addressed to Janus, the god of beginnings and endings, who’s second only to Jupiter,” she explained, pulling out a book titled *Ancient Roman Mythology and All the Gods*.

“But Janus has two faces,” you remarked, examining the page in the book.

“Exactly—the past and the future,” she replied, shaking her head. “The prayer mention like 'another time' and 'another life',  which possibly could be hinting at escape or a peaceful death. The meaning of many artifacts like this often remains a mystery, even to historians and archaeologists.”

You paused, suddenly uneasy. Could it be true what happened with Marcus?

No, that seemed impossible.

But what if it was?

“Can I ask you one more thing? I was talking to the scriptwriter earlier, and I think he could really use your help with something he’s stuck on,” you said, pulling the medallion out of your bag. “He’s trying to figure out how someone wearing this medallion could travel through time. Is that even possible, or does it sound kind of ridiculous? Does that make sense?”

Katie furrowed her brow, scrutinizing the medallion with her magnifying glass before holding it under ultraviolet light. She looked at you, astonished. “This is incredibly rare. Your scriptwriter must really be into these. But the engravings aren’t connected to time. Did he notice the sun-like symbol?” It was prominently displayed at the center of the medallion, next to the inscriptions. “That’s Sol Invictus—the official sun god of the Roman Empire and protector of soldiers.”

A wave of realization washed over you. “Did you say soldier?” your voice quivered.

“Yes, it’s an amulet or talisman designed to offer protection to the wearer against all evils. The inscriptions indicate this. It’s beautifully preserved. Most in the museum are worn down, but this one looks almost brand new,” she remarked, her admiration evident.

Yet, as you absorbed her words, a tightness gripped your chest. Part of you wished she had dismissed the medallion as a fake. Why did it have to be real?

“But I’m not quite sure how the prayer on the paper connects to time or anything like that. It seems we’ll have to do quite a bit of digging to unravel that mystery,” she added with a grin.

“Maybe it has something to do with the symbols,” you suggested, noticing the same sun sign on the necklace, which was also etched small in the corner of the paper.

“No, I don’t think that’s it. There’s no symbol on the paper—just the inscription. The purpose of the parchment serves a different role, but—”

“There it is,” you interrupted, gently pointing to the symbol with your fingertip. Katie looked at you, puzzled.

“Honey, there’s no symbol there—just some wear and tear.”

How could she not see the symbol you noticed? You glanced again to double-check; it was definitely there, but she remained firm in her denial. Or could it be that she simply couldn’t see it, while you could?

What on earth was happening?

Maybe you were truly starting to freak out. As you got ready to leave Katie’s room, a question bubbled up inside you. If, by some impossible chance, that man had traveled forward in time to your era, how would he ever make it back to his own? “Katie, let’s say—it’s unlikely, of course—but how could this time traveler, from the film, have arrived? And how would he return? Do you have any logical ideas?”

“This might sound a bit far-fetched, but if it were possible, I’d suggest a portal would have to open, and it would need to reopen in the same spot for the person to get back,” she explained.

“In the same spot,” you echoed quietly.

“Exactly. The audience would be blown away, right?” she replied. “Oh, absolutely,” you chuckled, a bit nervously.

“Just one more thing, Rose,” she said before you left the room. “It sounds silly to mention this without thorough research, but it’s quite possible that the individual who wrote that parchment and the one who inscribed the medallion could be the same person.”

You nodded slowly, “Yeah, I see what you mean. Thanks.”

You sat in the car for hours before finally starting the engine, resting your head on the steering wheel as you drifted into thought.

How was this even possible? 

This man was from another time, an era long gone.

But how?

How did you end up in this bizarre situation when nobody makes films or TV series about this kind of thing anymore?

Was Marcus correct?

Did reading that parchment somehow summon him or cause him to travel in your time?

Suddenly, a wave of sympathy washed over you. It must be incredibly hard for him. Then you recalled the harsh words you’d thrown at him: “freak,” “maniac,” “psycho.” 

With a deep sigh, you turned the key in the ignition. You should have freed him from the police station sooner. 

When you arrived, it was a challenge to convince the officer. Fortunately, after you called Leo for assistance, the crew from the set decided to drop their complaint since no damage had been done. You signed a form acknowledging that you were responsible for knowing this stranger and agreed to return his lost ID soon. Before long, a policeman escorted him inside.

You swallowed hard as your eyes met his, still struggling to wrap your mind around the fact that he was a soldier from ancient Rome. 

“You came as you promised,” he said as the car rolled away. 

He still didn’t seem accustomed to the ride, curiously fidgeting with everything around him. 

“Yeah, I had to—considering your obsession with promises,” you managed to murmur, your voice shaky.

“Or do you believe me now?” he asked, hopeful. 

“I’m still unsure and in shock, to be honest. But I think I’ve figured out how to get you back to your time.” 

“Is that right?” 

“I’ll read the parchment again, in the same place,” you explained, the plan crystallizing in your mind. He nodded slowly, contemplation etched on his face. "That is a logical conclusion."

“By the way, I’m Rose,” you said quietly. 

He turned to you, intrigued. 

“Rose,” he repeated, your name lingering in the air. “Rosa,” he repeated again, trying to pronounce it in his own way. 

“In Latin, yes,” you confirmed, your smile widening as his expression softened. “It’s a beautiful name,” he remarked, the tenderness in his voice stirring something deep within you.

“Thanks, yours is nice too, I suppose,” you replied shyly as you pulled into the parking spot.

“Here?”

It was dark now, and fortunately, Marcus had led you to a secluded spot where the set wasn’t too crowded. He mentioned that this was where he first opened his eyes. 

“Forgive me for not providing you with clean clothes,” you said, noticing he had been wearing the same outfit for days. 

“That’s alright. There were times when I didn’t take off my armor for twenty days,” he replied confidently.

You grimaced. “Ew. Didn’t people around you douse you with water? You must smell terrible,” you joked, laughing.

You couldn’t help but notice the flicker of a smile across his face—was he smiling?

How could he be that handsome?

“Let’s get on with this; I need to head back,” he said, fastening his medallion around his neck again. “A present from someone important?” you mocked.

He brushed off the question, his expression shifting to one of seriousness. “Spell the words,” he instructed, his tone commanding.

Where had the smiling guy gone? Regardless, he was about to leave, slipping back into whatever life he had come from, and soon he would be entirely out of your world. Why did it matter to you?

You pulled out the parchment from your bag and draped it over your shoulder before glancing down to read. “I guess this is goodbye, Mr. General.”

He shook his head. “It is.”

You extended your hand. “It was nice to meet you after all; I hope everything goes well for you.”

He looked at your hand, seemingly unsure of how to shake. You grabbed his hand with both of yours and smiled. “That’s how you do it,” you said, initiating a proper handshake. He nodded but quickly pulled his hand back, clearly eager to return. You looked back at the parchment, and shock gripped you as you witnessed the letters begin to shift. 

Yes, they shifted. They fucking moved!

"This is just some magical shit," you barely muttered.

Whether they danced before your eyes, or you were losing your grip on sanity, you couldn't quite tell. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing your sudden change in demeanor.

“Nothing, it’s just…” How could you articulate the absurdity of it all? 

You fumbled through your thoughts without reading the text, aware that the words had morphed, and your grasp of Latin was sufficient to recognize the difference.

"If that person is engulfed in distress or peril, grant him the chance to rise to another life, another time…"

In that instance, a blinding flash erupted behind Marcus, framed between the ancient stone pillars of the temple. Oh, fantastic. Everything behind the brilliance blurred, and a peculiar wind started to stir, filling the air with an unsettling energy.

“It worked,” Marcus declared, excitement radiating from him. He boldly approached the radiant light, but oddly, it didn’t seem to pull him in. He furrowed his brow and glanced in your direction. “Something’s not right.”

“Tell me about it,” you retorted, your mind buzzing like a beehive with confusion. This was all too overwhelming.

He stepped closer and snatched the parchment from your grasp. “What’s written here has changed. What kind of lesson is this, gods?” he bellowed, frustration edging his voice.

“Hey, I’ve done my best. I’m done, okay? Just go back to your own time!” 

“It doesn't say ‘that person’ here; not anymore at least. It says ‘those... two," he murmured, suddenly contemplative. 

“So?” you asked, regretting it immediately. You didn’t like the look on his face.

He moved toward you. "You called me, and I believe you should come with me."

You backed away. “What? Are you out of your mind? I didn’t call you! Stay away from me!” you wailed.

But he kept advancing, and just as you were about to turn to escape, he grabbed your wrist. 

“Let go!”

"I assure you that I will bring you back. I must return now, for this may be my only chance."

“Let go of me! No, you can’t! Please.” But your struggles were futile, like fighting against stone. Why couldn’t anyone on set hear you, for heaven’s sake? 

With a fierce determination, he pulled you toward the blinding anomaly, despite your protests. The last thing you remembered was the wash of light enveloping you.

And then, in the blink of an eye—

A strange wind giving you goosebumps.

Another blink. Marcus stood before you, a triumphant smile on his face. The bastard was elated.

But why?

You quickly grasped the reason as your eyes scanned the surroundings, the realization hitting you like a painful shock. “This is impossible,” you gasped, disbelief washing over your features. There were no skyscrapers, no trailers, no street lights—only temples, countless temples, all illuminated by the flickering light of torches lining the streets. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” you exclaimed, frantically searching for the rift or portal.

Where had it gone? 

Marcus watched your frantic search, his brow furrowed. 

“We have returned to my time.”

Was he smiling???

That was the last straw. You glared at him, anger boiling inside. “We? We have returned? Are you fucking kidding me? You dragged me in here! Why did you do it? How could you?” With all your might, you punched him repeatedly in the chest. 

"Stop it. I gave you my word that I would help you return in your own time. You can trust me on that."

“How? How do you plan to do that? Do you think this portal or rift or whatever it’s called just pops up everywhere, asking, ‘Hey there! Anyone want to time travel?’ I can’t believe you. After everything I’ve done to help you, you’re just a jerk, ungrateful bastard! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” You kept punching him on the shoulders and chest, but he didn't even feel hurt; he only sighed deeply.

Suddenly, he covered your mouth with his palm. “Call me whatever you wish, but I swear I’ll keep that promise, on my life. Now, please, keep your voice down. The guards are patrolling nearby, they might hear us.”

You didn’t care; tears streamed down your cheeks as your mind struggled to comprehend this unreal situation. How? Why? The questions spiraled endlessly. 

In the distance, the Colosseum came into view. It was undamaged, intact, perfectly circular. This bizarre reality only deepened your confusion, and you could take it no longer. You crumpled to the ground, unable to stand.

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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[yandere-wishes]

˖ ࣪⊹𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞/𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐜𝐞 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⸸ Yandere! Capitano x reader

༒︎ Summary: He's the ice bearer, the monster sent to snuff out the flames of your homeland. But isn't that just love? To kill with such passion. Wouldn't anything else just be a lie?

🗡Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, reader has a pyro vision and wields a claymore

𓌜 author's note: I made some Girlypop Capitano edits to sorta fit the vibe: One & Two

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Do you love me? Or do you love how I make you feel?

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Kachina is lost

She does not emerge from the scared flame

Nor does her ancient name echo across the skies.

Life stills, death looms.

light wanes, darkness reaches.

The glow of the sacred flame burns your eyes.

It's ambers whispering grime truths.

"I volunteer to go, too. You'll need all the help you can get."

Mavuika's flame mane rasps across her shoulders as she shakes her head. Lips taut in thought, sepia brows furled in eccentric fret. You've yet to see this shade of worry painted across your archon's face.

"I can't afford to excuse you, especially now that I fear my powers are dwindling. I need someone to have my back. Besides I'm sure the champians can handle it."

Duty first, that's the oath of the Princesses of Flame. Guard the archon with your life, protect her through any means necessary.

You force your head into a sharp nod.

The chill in the stadium air sends a nervous tang rippling through your spine. You've heard the Wayob speak of this sort of frost before. This all encompassing thing.

His boots grace the stadium floor with all the grace of falling stars. Ethereal armor glows in the soft roar of dancing flames. Icicles in dawn's first light.

The tall figure tilts his armor-clad head up at the archon's perch, with impertinence. You almost swear you hear a chuckle of mockery chime from the inside of his helmet.

"Pyro Archon" he speaks, voice distant and distorted, ice on ice through hail storms. The chill glides across your body again, how can one man be so cold? Shouldn't the cold be a sweet thing? Relief from harsh suns and harsher fires?

"Since the oath made five centuries ago remains unfulfilled, what use is the gnosis in your hands?"

He is all ice. But not the sugar-laced ice cubes that float leisurely in spiced cacao milk. No. He is the harsh verglas only spoken of in hushed tones around grisly campfires. The ice that leaves plains frozen and destroyed. It kills all things warm, all things that breathe.

There is a chill in the air.

It penetrates the skin and nests between the bones.

subconsciously you run your fingers across your neck.

"I challenge you for the gnosis, for the right over Natlan's rules" He shrugs off the heavy cape, the multilayered garment with too much wool and heat.

Strange, strange thing.

It amazes you how he hasn't melted from wearing such stout apparel in such smoldering climate. He tosses it to the side careful to never ripe the precious fabric.

"Fight, or summon your champion"

Your hand rests heavily on Mavuika's shoulder. Eyes transfixed in a silent plea.

The people need their Archon.

Natlan needs its Archon.

Besides this is your duty.

Mavuika nods.

Red eyes never once straying from the intruder.

Vicious sparks flicker across your palm. Like sparking a match across dried bark. You feel the inforno's kiss licking past your skin, weaving into the bone, as your weapon materializes. Your fingers ring across the worn, burnt handle of your loyal armament.

"I shall fight you fatui, for the honor and glory of Natlan and the Pyro Archon."

He watches you through the mask, through the ebony darkness that shields his mysterious visage. He reminds you of how Saurians watch their prey. Weighing each tiny breath, tasting each heartbeat through the air. He looks nothing less than regally monstrous.

Like death, doom, and despair.

You've tasted this before, engraved the bitterness upon your tongue, and honed your body to fight it. He will not take Natlan, he will not condemn your home to his cold.

The weight of your claymore pulls you down. Plunging into hard rock. You watch as he bats the dust with his hand. Gloved and armoured. What is he hiding? You wonder. What man truly needs so many layers? Armor, ice, frost, steel, wool. You long to peel them away, desperate to find something human underneath. Something squishy and worm. You want to feel his heartbeath between your teeth. Drink from his warm blood and relish in the sweet aftertaste. A testament to how you conquered the cold.

You've never seen someone so eager to be hidden in layers up layers.

Snow on ice.

Ice on iron.

"You're awfully young to take on such a big responsibility little girl"

his voice makes you shiver, you can almost taste his ice on your tongue.

Bitter, like barbwire and salt.

"Don't mock me Fatui" You warn, molding your body into a battle stance, knees folded almost kissing the stadium floor, weapon clasped with both hands. Eyes on the target.

Just like Mavuika taught you.

Just like you taught Kachina.

You can feel the heat from your vision coursing through your body, cracking your bones and mingling with marrow. You wait, just one more breath. You use the pyro blessing to project yourself through the air, like an arrow aimed straight for the man made of ice and lies. Swinging your claymore, ready to dent his helmet - and hopefully his head inside-  but he blocks it with his glacier sword. Just a thin dainty thing, capable of quelling your inferno-laced colossus.

Capitano advances, with a flick of his sword he pushes you back. Your heart hammers wildly, someone so skilled so strong, it's almost a shame he can never compete in the pilgrimage. That he can never be on your side.

You use the momentum of his push to frontflip through the foggy air. You land squarely on his wide shoulders, digging your foot into his trapezius muscle, while your knee scrapes his other shoulder for balance. You swing your claymore once more, trying to strike his head off. But to your shock, he parries it with the back of his rime gauntlets.

You keep pushing trying to slice through ice, armor, flesh, anything. Yet everything about this man seems to be made of inviolable steel adorned with everlasting cyro. For a second the metal of his helmet kisses the inside of your thighs. There is no shame in battle, no flirting with the opponent. There are only two bodies entwined until death and defeat. Until one rises and one falls. Still, there's something about the way his black face, regards yours that has a shy blush creeping on the hollows of your cheeks. The man, no this formidable monster is far too close, it's almost as if he's longing for a kiss. You leap back, whispering patronymic blessing to the Archon when your feet meet solid rock once more.

"You fight well little girl, but your attacks are careless, loose. You can not defeat opponents if you can not penetrate their defenses."

He dashes, so quickly you almost think he's flickering between the ground and air. You feel his familiar cold before, you feel the hilt of his sword nestle into your abdomen. He leans forward, helmet sending frostbite through the side of your head "You smell so sweet, like the roses of Snezhnaya". Capitan thrusts his sword with raw force sending you soaring into the stadium walls, the rocks crumple around you, as you struggle to lift yourself up once more.

Your eyes try to carve sight through dust and debris. The air is thick, hot and cold. You blink twice desperate for your eyes to focus. There are silhouettes dancing towards you twirling through the air like Yumkasaurus.

Capitano's ice projectiles glide through the air, they're almost beautiful if you could doubt their lethality. He commands them with flickers of his wrist, and it's only when their frost kisses your body that you fully remember this is a battle, not a dance. They lounge themselves between your ribs, underneath your heart, in the plump of your thigh, the bullseye of your shoulder. Pretty icicles cut open your flesh burying themselves deeply inside you, you'd almost dub it romantic, with how the icicles intonate to your erratic heartbeat.

The frost begins to infiltrate your vascular flow, cauterizing you from the inside. Spreading through the outside, you hiccup out a low moan. Capitano laughs, in a tone that feigns mockery. "I see my ice is to your liking". You bite your lip holding back another moan, it's so wholly painful yet so satisfying. You were right the cold does offer such a delicious relief from the blazing inferno all around.

Your opponent stalks closer, kneeling by your freezing body. You doubt Muarvirka can see through the grey air permutating the stadium. Maybe that's why, away from all prying eyes. The captain lifts his helmet revealing smirking lips. He grazes the side of your mouth with a faux kiss. savoring your warmth before, parting your lips, and deepening the kiss. Even his lips are utterly frozen, he sucks you flames from your mouth extinguishing your fires, with blood-deep frost. He runs a cold iron-clad claw across her cheek, scrapping up the skin, creating a rivulet of red. Before licking it lovingly with his icy tongue. "Why are you so cold?" you shutter, "Why so frostbitten? Has no one ever taught you the joys of the flame?"

He laughs, really really laughs this time. And while you still can't see his eyes, you swear they soften. "I've been burnt too many times, trust me the cold has its merits. But one must be willing to surrender to them."

Capitano plucks your body from the ground. He cradles you roughly in his arms.

He has no warmth to offer.

No heat.

He is only ice.

The fog yields, as you look up. Mavuika screams, her anger palpable. "I'll accept her as my prize for now archon" Capitano spits. "But next time I shall challenge you and know that I will take the gnosis too."

The flames in the stadium roar, trying to melt away the frost plaguing your body. Trying to replenish your spark. You begin to flail and kick, desperate to be liberated from Capitano's iron and frost-clad grasp.

You need to break free, to return to your archon's side, to be there when the others return with Kachina. You can not let this monster pilfer you away from your home, your people, your archone.

"Let me go!" you scream, your last attempt at a battle cry.

"Shhh, war trophies have no right to refuse."

⋆⋆⋆༺𓆩⸸𓆪༻⋆⋆⋆

Super tempted to draw the reader's outfit!!

🪐 @definitely-asexual-volcano @eth3realc0rps3  @numberonefanfury  @madara3437 @crystalkat6747 @m00nlight-mexican @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @orcasandtea @tecchoukisserr

[lordprettyflackotara]

sandman || fred weasley

smut 18+, minors dni

You lacked the capability to relax.

Being in Ravenclaw the expectations of the world were on your shoulders, not including the dementors that circled Hogwarts walls that made your skin crawl.

You had been up late studying with Hermione in the Gryffindor common room, who had already been dragged to bed by Ginny.

Clutching your quill you continued to scribble on the parchment paper, your temple beginning to throb.

“How did a Raven manage to fly into the lions den this late at night?” Fred Weasley’s recognizable voice asked you. You poked your head up from your Herbology textbook, Fred’s curious eyes watching you.

“I was studying with Hermione, she ditched me early. So much for an all nighter,” You explained, marking your page. You resisted the urge to fold the corners, placing your quill in between the pages about gillweed.

“Granger going to bed early to avoid studying? How out of character. Did you give her some of our drowsy draught potion?” Fred teased. You giggled, watching the lean quidditch player approach you. A white wife beater revealed how much muscle he truly had, his usual robes keeping them concealed.

He strode over to you confidently, taking a seat on the floor beside you. The fireplace cackled behind you, the warmth of the fire drawing Fred closer. “It’s almost three am, do you plan on sleeping?” Fred asked curiously. You knew as well as he did that he was notorious for sleeping through anything. Including the dreadful hail storm that once terrorized Hogwarts.

“I’m basically an insomniac at this point, I can’t relax for more than five seconds without racking my brain to solve an equation,” You admitted sheepishly. You nervously tucked your hair behind your ear as Fred leaned back on his hands. “Here turn your back towards me, I have some legit magic that’ll help you relax,” Fred told you. You hesitantly raised your eyebrow. The ginger tended to be a mischievous prankster, even if you weren’t a victim of his tricks.

“And you’re not going to prank me?”

“Pfft, of course not,”

“Promise Weasley?”

“I promise,”

You shifted around, your back now turned to Fred as you pulled your skirt down. You weren’t sure what to expect, acutely aware of how close you both were. Fred brushed your hair away from your back and over your shoulder, before beginning to massage your shoulders. “I thought you said this was magic,” You say timidly, his large hands massaging your skin with ease. Fred chuckled at your response, brushing some of his shaggy hair out of his face.

Merlin he needed a haircut.

“Yes this is the magic of relaxation,”

Your tense body began to slowly relax under Fred’s touch, the gingers eyes scanning your neck.

“Looks like you’re good at something other than pranks Weasley,” You say teasingly. Fred rolled his eyes. “I’m good at quidditch too ya know,” He countered. Fred could feel himself growing flustered as he continued massaging you, his eyes wondering down your figure.

“Your neck looks pretty tense, I can fix that for you if you want. I’ll just need you to turn around,” Fred offered, trying to appear cool and confident. You felt your face flush pink as you shifted around, facing him. You had never gotten a chance to interact with Fred one on one, George always connected to his hip.

The moment seemed oddly intimate, even though you had never considered relationships or sex worth your time. Yet the ginger sat in front of you with his large hands and soft lips, practically begging for you to kiss him. You had never considered yourself to be attracted to Fred Weasley, yet your body was yearning for more of his touch.

Fred couldn’t contain himself anymore, closing the gap between your lips and his. He tasted faintly of butterbeer, your eyes fluttering shut as your lips danced against his. Your arms found themselves around his neck, Fred’s hands slithering down to your waist. In a swift motion he had pulled you onto his lap, straddling him in front of the fire. Your fingers found his hair, small groans being swallowed by him as your hips bucked against his.

You could feel a wet patch growing in your panties, the soaked fabric rubbing right against Fred’s growing boner. His large hands slipped up your skirt, grabbing your ass. Your hips grinded against his, lust boiling in your stomach. “I wanna taste you,” Fred muttered against your lips, his words a confession. You felt heat rush to your cheeks as you briefly pulled away, Fred’s lips almost chasing yours.

“W-what Weasley?”

Fred brought his thumb to your lower lip, dragging it downwards.

“I want your lips wrapped around my cock as I make you cum on my face,”

His filthy words sent a shiver of arousal down your spine, right down to your cunt.

You went to unzip your skirt before Fred grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“Keep it on,” He whispered, his order teetering on the line of a plea. You swallowed as the ginger laid down in front of you, eagerly awaiting you. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” You admitted, causing the ginger to chuckle. You stood up, pushing your panties down to your ankles before stepping out of them.

“I’d be a lucky man if I were to die between your thighs. C’mere,” Fred told you. You kneeled down over his head, your cunt inches away from his face.

“Fred what if I crush-”

Your concern was silenced by Fred’s hands pushing you down onto his face. You whimpered as his warm tongue licked a stripe up your cunt before assaulting your clit. You felt your thighs tighten around his head as his hands kept you in place, your filthy noises becoming louder by the minute.

“Fuck, right fucking there,” You moaned, grinding your hips onto his mouth. His lips began to suck at your clit, causing your thighs to shake. Your eyes centered on Fred’s boner, his cock throbbing inside of his pajama pants. You leaned forward, hungrily shoving them down. The lack of boxers caused you to giggle as his cock landed on his stomach.

“No underwear huh? Naughty boy,” You teased. A sharp smack landed on your bare ass, causing you to winch in pain for a brief moment before Fred’s tongue brought you back to ecstasy.

The ginger was longer than you expected him to be. You took his shaft into your hands, bringing it into your mouth. A soft groan was muffled by your folds, encouraging you to sink your head further down onto his cock. You took as much of him as you could in your mouth, using your hand to jerk the rest of his cock.

Fred admired your determination and for a brief moment he considered switching positions, the thought of you on your knees for him mouth watering. Yet, there was something about having your pretty lips wrapped around his cock as he was buried into your pussy that pleased him more.

You tasted divine, much sweeter than any other girl he had fooled around with. He licked up your cunt, pushing his tongue inside of your hole. You were involuntarily animalistic, your hips having a mind of their own as Fred laid there in heaven.

Fred’s hips were beginning to do the same, bucking upwards. His cock hit the back of your throat, causing you to gag as saliva trailed down your chin. Fred momentarily pulled away from your dripping cunt, smirking as your juices coated his lips and chin. You took him out of your mouth, gasping for air.

“You sound so pretty when you gag on my cock. Do it again and i’ll make you cum,” Fred ordered. You tried to grind down onto Fred’s face but his strong hands kept you in place. You could feel his warm breath a mere inch away from your cunt, taunting you.

The idea of cumming on Fred Weasley’s face had never been more appealing to you.

Desperately you brought his cock back to your lips, shoving it down your throat. You forced yourself to keep his shaft in place as you gagged around him. Saliva was trailing down your chin and neck, beginning to dampen your blouse.

“Such a good listener aren’t we? What a good girl,” Fred praised, kitten licking your folds. You pulled back, inhaling deep breaths of air.

“Now be a good girl and ride my face until you make yourself cum,”

You leaned back hesitantly, gripping his chest for support as he placed his mouth back onto your cunt. It was as if he somehow had memorized your body, his tongue licking every right place. Your moans were sinful enough to wake up the entire Gryffindor house and it was a miracle no one had bothered to go into the common room.

“Freddie, I, fuck-” You groaned, a familiar knot in your stomach forming. His lips had wrapped themselves around your clit, sucking harshly at the sensitive bud as your thighs trembled around his head. His large hands kept you on his face, refusing to let you move away.

You could feel your cunt clench around nothing as your thighs began to shake, squeezing Fred’s head unintentionally. Unholy moans that were mantras of his name echoed off of the common room walls as you came. Euphoria had washed over you, your nails digging into Fred’s chest.

Fred licked and sucked at your clit until you slowly lifted off of him, your knees almost buckling as you shifted away from his face. You weakly sat beside him, your after orgasm glow apparent to the ginger in front of you. “Look at you, you’re so cute,” Fred teased, using his thumb to wipe away the remaining spit on your chin.

In a swift motion you brought your lips back to his, Fred rising to his knees. You could taste your juices on his lips as you roughly meshed your lips against his. Fred couldn’t take it anymore, pulling away to meet your gaze. He shrugged his wife beater over his head, discarding it without a second thought.

“Bend over for me, yeah?”

You turned around, bending over in front of him without a second thought. You could feel him lubricate the tip of his cock by running it up and down your folds. The sensation of it hitting your abused clit made you shiver. “You have no idea how long i’ve thought about doing this,” Fred confessed. A cool breeze hit your bare skin as Fred lifted up your skirt, exposing your ass in full to him. As he pushed inside of you his fingers gripped your waist forcefully, as if he were afraid you’d disappear.

“So full- shit,” You groaned, your eyes screwing shut as he bottomed out.

“You’re practically fucking milking my cock, merlin, you slut,” Fred groaned. Your cunt only clenched around him tighter at the sound of his degrading words, causing him to smirk.

He began picking up the pace, fucking into you slowly. Your noises only grew louder as his hips began to snap into yours faster. Fred’s thrust were merciless, his body chasing an ecstasy only you could provide.

Strings of curses mixed in with your name left Fred’s lips as he watched his cock go in and out of you. He was so deep inside of you that you almost thought you were seeing stars, your body drunk off of the feeling of his cock.

“You feel so good Freddie, so fucking- good,” You slurred, your words of encouragement only making Fred pound into you faster. His cock was abusing your g spot, causing your legs to shake as your knees dug into the carpet below you. You could feel the rug digging into your skin, making it raw which each thrust.

“I wanna fuck you everyday, make you my personal Raven,” Fred grunted. He could feel you getting closer to your final high, his hand slithering down to your swollen clit. You began to squirm as his fingers circled around your sensitive bud, unable to handle the fast circles he was drawing. “Oh- i’m gonna cum, I can’t, fuck!” You cried, your walls spasming as Fred ripped you into a state of euphoria.

Fred fucked you through your orgasm mercilessly, ravishing in the sight of you in a state of pure bliss. He was so focused on you that by the time he tried to pull out his cock it was too late, his cum painting the inner walls of your cunt. Your body was spent, slumping over onto the floor as Fred pulled out of you.

Two orgasms was all it took to get you to finally go to sleep. Fred smirked to himself as he shoved his pajama pants back on, your small sleeping body curled up into a ball in front of the fire. He grabbed your things, shoving them into a bag he knew he’d deliver to you in the afternoon when you ran into each other in defense against the dark arts.

He eyed your panties on the floor, contemplating putting them back on you. Instead a more mischievous thought came to mind, which caused him to decide to shove them in his pocket instead. He picked up your body up bridal style, carrying you upstairs to the girls dorm. Fred knocked on the door, hoping whichever gryffindor girl opened it wouldn’t be a first year.

A sleepy Hermione Granger opened the door, rubbing her eyes as her vision settled. “Y/n is still here?” She asked. Her mind was already scrambling itself on what to do, the responsibility of being a prefect weighing on her shoulders. “Yeah she finally just went to sleep, I don’t think I can deliver her to Ravenclaw tower at this hour,” Fred shrugged. Hermione stared at Fred, shirtless and hair messy. He looked like a wreck, and you didn’t look much better.

Questions were on the tip of her tongue, ones she decided could wait until the morning. Hermione knew there were a few extra beds that were designated for first years, but in emergencies they would have to do. “The spare beds are to the right, be very quiet and don’t pull anything stupid,” Hermione said sternly. Fred carried you inside of the room, ignoring the dozens upon dozens of sleeping gryffindor girls. Hermione trailed close behind him, ensuring he wasn’t up to any funny business.

“How’d you get her to go to sleep anyways? Shes practically an insomniac,”

Fred shrugged, laying you down and bringing the red colored comforter up to your shoulders.

“I’m not sure myself, guess you can call me the sandman,”

[writingoddess1125]

The old men of One Piece finding out they have a child with you. Pt. 3

THROWS OUT FRESH MEAT To YOU ALL "SUPPER IS HERE" Buy me a Ko-Fi ;3

Part 4 <- Click Here

Shanks, Buggy, Mihawk xFemreader

Healthy Mix of Angst and Fluff

Buggy

It had been a week since Buggy had given you the talk about taking a 'Vacation with the boys' aka himself taking time away to help you raise the twins-

At first you didn't expect him to actually stick to it- it was a heavy order for anyone especially a pirate. However you had seen him silently preparing for the time off, piles of paperwork how payouts to his crew, budgeting for the time away and more.

It filled your heart in ways you never expected. Feeling joyful at him being so willing to do this for you and the twins. Speaking of the twins, they had been extra rambunctious it seemed. Clearly having enjoyed Buggy's time and attention too much and now that he was working that ment that the crew was at the twins mercy-

You never thought you'd see the day that the crew would miss Buggy's presents especially against two pre-teen boys.

"Miss (Y/N) can you please- Please Take the children" Cabaji said, His eyes sunken in and tired as he held Dee in one Arm and Bee in another. It seemed both had gotten into a fight again and Cabaji was in the middle.

"Of course" You giggle and thank the poor man, Taking your twins in your arms and bring them inside. Scolding both for being brats and getting them washed and fed for the night.

That night a storm rolled in. Rocking the Big Top and its crew inside, You sat there brushing out your boys hair in the Captian's quarters where you lived. The storm had set in thick, rocking the ship and pelting the crew with hail and icy rain. Buggy out on the main deck at the wheel as he yelled over the storm.

"Mom- I don't like the storms..." Dee whispered. Leaning against you as the ship rocked once again- Bee didn't say anything but his body language saying the same.

"I know sweety, but it's part of-"

"ENEMY SHIP ENEMY SHIP! ALL HANDS ON DECK!!" The announcement started from the speakers, you rising to your feet quickly as you heard the battle started.

"Boys you stay here and hide, Understand me?" You order, the twins nod quickly and do as said and hide under the bed. You grab a sword quickly and rush out the room, Locking it behind you with the key Buggy had given you.

You hold the sword as you see the first face of the enemy pirates rush down to the Lower Deck, Slicing through them with ease and continued up to the Main Deck Locking the door of the Lower Deck and rushing forward as more pirates approached you, You quickly defended yourself as you tried to stay close to the main doors. The rain pelting your skin and making it hard to see, A larger man approached with a axe. Swinging down he almost struck you as you slipped and managed to move away just in time.

"(Y/N)!!!"

Buggy yelled as he released his arms launching blades into the man's chest and knocking him back. As his arms returned to him a massive wave hit- Sending ocean water over the main deck, you saw this as the crash swept Buggy from the wheel. Running forward you grabbed Buggy sleeve and pulled him before he could be claimed by the rough waters, holding the wheel to keep from slipping.

Once the ship started to lean you pulled Buggy closer. Feeling his cough and regain his breath against you before climbing back up to the wheel to steady the rocking ship.

You saw the other shop fire more canons but the waves making them miss and fall short of the ship- The crew of the rival pirates starting to creak and splinter as the waves crashed against it.

"Retreat!!" A call of a rival pirate yelled, the temaing of their men trying to flee to the ship as the waves hit it. As the Ropes connecting the ships ripped Buggy turned hard, The backside of the ship smacking its offender as he tried to ride down the waves to clearer waters. Another massive wave came up and knocked the ship to its side, The Big Top groaning at the hit as it rode down the mountain of waves desperately.

You looked back to see the other ship heading into the opposite direction, the waves swallowing it from your perspective.

It was another 30 minutes before the storm softened enough to not be in danger. The crew both exhausted from the battle and storm it seemed, bodies of friend and foe being tossed overboard as the spinkle of rain washed the blood.

"You did good (Y/N).. Thank you" Buggy said softly, looking to you from the wheel of the ship. He looked rough- Soskes to the bone with his makeup running down his face.

"Of course" You said softly and giving him a equally tired smile.

"Captian! They got into the lower deck while the fight was happening!" Cabaji yelled out- Taking note of the damage that had been done. Your blood ran cold- Rushing from Buggy's side you ran down the stairs to the lower level, looking and seeing blood of a few fallen crewmates in the hall. Rushing to the Captian's quarters were you saw the splintered wood of the broken door, tears running down your cheeks as you felt your heart actually break. You frantically looked around- Sword still in hand as you stood in the room, it was destroyed. Blade slices through the pillows, furniture turned over.

"No- No No NO!" You screamed loudly, the reality hitting your chest making you scream out a sob.

Buggy rushed downstairs, seeing the splintered door and you sitting on the destroyed bedroom floor sobbing loudly. He ran to your side as his eyes frantically searching the envirment with the same fear as you.

"They are gone!" You sobbed, Buggy face turning to stone as he stood up- Tossing around the broken furniture and items in the room desperate to find evidence of them.

"FUCK!" He roared, anger filling his soul. He turned to your sobbing form and grabbed you by your shoulders- He looked like he wanted to scream at you but instead pulled you to his chest.

"We'll find them- There isn't any blood so they are alive" He said, it sounded like he was speaking more to himself then you.

"We'll Find them"

Shanks

It seemed Shanks had not been in Times good Graces. Not at all- What had expected to be a 6 month long Mission had been extended- drastically.

7 Years- 7 Years has Shanks been out to sea. From being turned into a Emperor of a sea, seeing the future of pirating and the slow steady crumble of the Goverment. Shanks had been stuck- but that didn't matter.. It was over at least for now-

Shanks felt his heart jumping as he saw the coast of the small village.

You stare at him shocked, before your face fell in a mixture of anger, sadness and some relief.

"You're back..." Was all you could mutter, Shanks surprised by your coldness. Awkwardly shifting on his feet.

"Well yeah! Of course I am! I came here to see You and Vivian" He said enthusiastically, you winced at his words and sighed.

Shanks feeling off about your attitude towards him- You gestured for him to follow you which he obediently did. Sitting at the dining room table

"Shanks I'm going to be honest with you- Vivian is not going to be very welcoming to you"

Shanks felt like you had just dumped cold water on him at saying this.

"What? No of course she will! I know it's been a while but I love her (Y/N) and she was my little gir-"

"For a few weeks... but that was years ago.. when she was 4 years old- Shes 11 and sees you as the dad that just packed up and left-" You said bluntly which made him bristle at the harsh words.

Shanks was ready to start in to argue till he heard the door open.

"Mom I'm home!" The sweetest voice he had ever heard called out to him. His eyes widened at this standing from his seat as he watched Vi make a appearance. In her school clothes still she had her hair in a ponytail and looked a bit scrapped up like she had been playing outside.

"Vivian" Shanks said softly, She turned her gaze to him and froze. Looking him up and down at first in shock- before her face scrunched up in a angry scowl. Adjusting her backpack she walked upstairs ignoring Shanks open arms as he stood there frozen in place.

"What the hell was that!?" He cried in shock as he turned back to you, you shrugged.

"I told you-"

Shanks stared at you in shock st this, before dashing out the back door in lightning speed. After 30 minutes he returned with a armful of gifts and marched upstairs to drop them off at her door. You knowing this wasn't going to fair well and offered him the guest room just like before.

Shanks had bought every gift he could think of- Every toy, outfit and more. All were refused and left back on his guest bed, The most he received was a cold glare from Vivian before she left the house for school or to do something away from home.

It had been 3 weeks already of Vivian giving him the cold shoulder or just being angry at him- He sat at your dining room table staring at the glass of rum he had barely sipped. Watching the liquid just float.

"When did she start hating me?..." He muttered, Hearing you chopping vegetables for dinner. You paused for a brief moment and sighed

"3 years after you left..." You admit, sliding the cut up carrot into the pot. Shanks laid his head on the table and watched you quietly, Clearly wanting you to continue.

"She waited for you. Everyday for those three years sitting on the docks... watching the horizon for you to return- and you never did... I guess finally her spirit broke and she resented you" Shanks winced at your words and rotated his face towards the wood.

He was silent for a while, before shifting up to his feet. Trying to Shank off the coming depression.

"I'll be back" He said softly, dismissing himself. His mind was racing with everything he could do, what he should have down and more. Sighing heavily as he walked towards the main town, but the sound of children caught his ear.

Following the sound he turned a corner to see a group of kids- at first he assumed they were playing till he saw a hair for a red hair and a busted up face. There stood Vivian, Her lip busted and eye starting to swell as she tried to scrap back against 4 other kids at once.

"Your Mom's a pirate whore!" A purple haired boy shouted as he pushed Vivian again, Her back hitting a trees but she stood once more.

"Don't talk about my Mom!" She screamed before punching the boy in the nose, He yelled out in pain as the other 3 kids began to jump her once more.

But before contact could be made all three were hiked up in the air by the back of their clothes. A awful feeling washing through them as this heavy pressure began to weigh on them-

Vivian looked up, seeing the ringleader standing to the side looked terrified as his 3 lackys were held up-

He looked like a demon to them all, his eyes practically glowing as he glared at the four children.

"4 little shits- wanting to jump my little girl- So ill say this now... You all better Fuck Off" The kids instantly began to cry, rhe ringleader wetting his pants and running away from the group. Shanks dropped the three and watched them scramble and run away as well. Vivian sitting on the ground still staring up at her father in awe, before trying to snap back to her irritation from before- Shanks reaching down and helping her up. But she refused him and stood on her own- Shanks sighed at this.

"Vivian- I know you want to keep ignoring me. But we need to talk" He said calmly, finally putting his foot down it seemed.

"Vi-" He said calmly as he grabbed her arm quickly before she could leave. She tried to pull his hands off angrily, Angry tears already welling up in her eyes.

"There is nothing to talk about!" She protested but Shanks didn't release his grip.

"You're mad at me I was gone so l-" She glared up at him, now tears filling her gaze and spill from her cheeks.

"I'm mad you left me!! I finally got a dad and you left me! You didn't want me anymore so you forgot about me!!" She screamed up at him, Shanks gently releasing his hand from her as he watched her.

Shanks slowly moved his cloak to the side revealing his blade, carefully with one hand undoing the tattered green ribbon and holding it out to Vivian. Her eyes widening at seeing it, and how despite the years he had held on to the old thing.

"...I never forgot you.. And I swear I never wanted to leave you Baby girl..."

"But you did!" She sobbed, fat tears rolling down her cheek. He nodded, tears running down his own cheeks reached around her neck and pulling up a chain. It was the Coin of his Jolly Roger- hung around her neck this whole time. She crutched it in her fist angrily.

"I didn't want them to find you... to hurt you or your mother- S-So this was the best to protect you" He admitted through broken cries. Vivian stared at him Biting her lip in what was assumed in anger before she left forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Shanks sobbed in what could only be described as relief and fell to his knees. Wrapping his arm around her quickly, kissing the top of her head and face.

"I missed you so much- I thought of you everyday" He sobbed, holding his daughter close as she sobbed against him.

"Don't leave me again Dad... Please" She managed to choke out inbetween cries. Shanks nodding at her words as he held her tighter.

"I will never do it again... ever"

Mihawk

Mihawk had seemed to at least temporarily take residence in your tiny home for the past month. Having taken the couch to rest at night but spent quite a bit of time with both you and Alucare- you had grown uses to Mihawk presents in your home. It reminding you of a sort of family even if you and Mihawk weren't together.

You felt Mihawk gaze on you as you moved around the kitchen, he seemed to enjoy watching you. More precisely your hips- You felt warmth hit your cheeks as you continued to make breakfast. You open up the cabinets to grab the plates, which were a bit too high up for you. You jumped once but before you could do much else you felt a hand land on the small of your back and a presents behind you. Glancing up you see Mihawk grabbing the plates for you, you blush and accept the plates as he hands to you.

"Thank you Mihawk"

"No need to thank me (Y/N)" He said softly, a hint of a smile on his lips as he met your gaze. As you opened your mouth to say something sjddently a butterknife flew through the air and stuck in the wood 3 inches from Mihawk's face making both of you jump in surprise and you squeak out a hushed scream. Turning to see Alucare, still in his sleeping clothes hair a mess and sleep in his gaze staring at you two.

"Oops My hand slipped-"

You sighed at your son and place your hand on your hips walking towards him.

"We both know damn well that was no accident Alucare!" You scolded your son who stood there calming taking it, His eyes locked onto Mihawk who glared at the boy with vengeance.

After 30 minutes of being scolded you ordered Aluecare to get ready for the day as you finished breakfast. Mihawk instead going out to the grove of trees were he knew Alucare would come to train before heading to school- On cue Alucare made an appearance and smirked at the clearly grumpy man sharpening his sword.

"Blue Balls?-" Alucare chimed, earning another frightful glare from the Warlord.

"So you are doing it on purpose-" Mihawk grumbled, continuing to sharpen the blade and stare at his spawn.

"Doing what?" the teen chimed crossing his arms with a continued stoic face.

"She was a date of mine long before she was your mother-" Mihawk brought up, pointing a finger in the direction of the house were you where.

"Ah yes Im sure that alleyway is a great dating spot" He deadpanned which made Mihawk close his mouth in a firm line. Standing up and putting his sword away.

"If you keep this up lad- you will not like me"

"I barely tolerate you now-" Alucare said with a raised eyebrow and scoffed as Mihawk smirked at him. Standing up with a nod.

"I'm warning you now boy- My only warning" He said before dismissing himself back inside.

Alucare left for school then, still with Mihawks words in mind.

That day Mihawk accompanied you with your daily errands. Getting groceries, clothes and more. You and him talk throughout the day, Blushing at his flirtatious manner for the day.

Once returned back home Mihawk had his hand on your hip as you served him wine. A pink color to your cheeks as you felt his hand upon you.

"You look really lovely (Y/N)... I'm am pleased i-" He was cut off by a loud cough, turning to see Alucare there with his face wrinkled in absolute disgust.

Mihawk narrowed his eyes at Alucare who had just interrupted him-

"Aren't you suppose to be in school?" He started as he stared at the living clone of him. Watching Alucare cross his arms and swagger to the side. You looked to the side embrassed by being caught like this, dismissing yourself quickly upstairs.

"I finished early- Just like you" Alucare said with a sarcastic smirk clearly teasing him, The Warlord glaring at his own spawn for the quip at him.

"....Did your mother teach you this level of disrespect?-" Mihawk started, as he stood up from his seat.

"Call it an inherited skill" He said calmly, watching the Warlord walk to him and stand before him. Silence falling between the two before Mihawk dismissed himself to the livingroom.

The game was set it seemed.

Alucare kept his guard up for days afterwards, seeing how calm Mihawk had been since he had cockblocked him once again. Being incredibly respectful to you and damn near kind to Alucare, at first he had been incredibly suspicious however after day 4 he had grown used to it.. That was his mistake.

You had been cleaning up something in the livinroom, you had noticed Mihawks attitude had cooled with you quite a bit. Worried you may have offended him in some way however you choose not to dwell on such things.

As you cleaned you felt a presents come behind you- it didn't take a genius to guess who. Turning to see Mihawk, seemingly fresh from the shower as he was simply in trousers and warm from the water. You blushed and turned away once more, feeling his hands on the small of your back first.

"(Y/N).." He started, his other hand finding yours as he moved the two of you in a gently sway with your back against his chest. Your resolve utterly breaking at this point.

"I feel like, I've neglected you in some way" He says softly, his lips drifting down your neck as you. You feeling weak to the knees as he did this, his fingers finding their way to your waist pulling you closer.

It was an hour before Alucare returned home, bag slung over his shoulder as walking into his home, about to call out like he normally did till be saw it-

There laid you and Mihawk clearly naked under some of the thinnest goddammit blankets in the house on the livingroom couch.

"AH FUCKING HELL!"

You heard a yell and sat up from the couch with the blanket pulled up to your bust. Seeing Alucare with a look of what can only be described as pure horror on what he was seeing his parents like this-

"O-Oh gods honey! What are you doing back so early!" You scramble red in the face as Mihawk lays there under the blankets, looking right at his son with a low smirk.

"You prick!" Alucare yelled at his father as he walked out again, wishing to burn his eyes out from what he saw. Hearing the low chuckle from his father behind him and you frantically scolding Mihawk.

He had won-

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[archangeldyke-all]

Angel I need to share this with you. I saw this tiktok where a girls bf switched shoes with her on the way back from a night out. So he took off his shoes and gave them to her so she could be more comfortable, and then he put on her heels and walked the rest of the way back in them.

You think our sweet sev would do that???

- 🐥

oh COMPLETELY!!!

men and minors dni

this evening, when you decided to wear your most uncomfortable pair of heels, you were under the impression that tonight would be a lowkey dinner date, where the most walking you'd have to do was to and from the car.

that had been the plan. and dinner had been great. you and sevika spent the evening making lovey eyes across the table from one another, feeding one another bites of your dinner, and laughing.

but then you'd gotten back to your car, sevika had turned the key, and a horrible grinding noise rang out.

"fuck is that?!" you ask. sevika groans.

"it can't be good." she says.

so, your evening takes a turn. you spend forty five minutes sitting in the car waiting for a tow truck, then another forty five letting the mechanic poke around under the hood.

"yeah, i'm gonna have to take it to the shop." marcy the mechanic says. sevika groans and you rub her back.

"how long 'til it'll be ready?" your wife asks. marcy shrugs.

"two days, a week at most."

"a week?!" sevika cries.

you squeeze her shoulder. "relax, baby. marcy, thank you so much for coming out so late." you say.

"'course. you ladies need a ride home? it'll take a few minutes for me to get the car hitched to my truck, but i don't mind stopping on the way back to the shop."

you shake your head. you're tired and you just want to get home. you're only a few blocks away, and sevika probably needs the walk to calm down anyways. "that's alright, we'll hoof it. thanks marcy. text me when you get back to your shop safe, alright?" you ask.

marcy salutes you. "will do. you ladies have a good night. or... as good a night as you can, after this."

which is how you find yourself walking half a mile in your worst fucking shoes.

you manage just fine for the first few blocks. by the time you're in your neighborhood, your feet are aching and you're clinging to sevika's arm for support.

and now, three blocks from home, you just can't take it anymore.

"hold on, honey." you groan as you pull sevika to a bench. she frowns at you in concern.

"you alright?" she asks, pinching your cheek sweetly. you chuckle.

"my feet are killing me. just give me a few seconds to rest and i'll be good to go again."

sevika giggles and sits beside you, kissing your head. "didn't plan on an evening stroll, did ya?" she asks. you snort.

"no, i didn't."

"not our best date night." sevika laments. you laugh.

"not our worst either, though." you say.

"no? which one was our worst?"

"hmm... remember that time the restaurant caught on fire during our anniversary?"

sevika bursts into laughter. "you think that was our worst? our dinner was comped and we got free drinks for life!"

you snort. "well, what do you think our worst date's been?"

"the time we tried to go for a hike and a fucking hail storm started. i thought we were gonna get fuckin' iced off the mountain." she says.

you laugh and rest your head on your wife's shoulder. "god, that was horrible."

"or maybe the time we took jinx and isha to the aquarium and they both got food poisoning."

"they never shoulda eaten the fish sticks in that cafe. 's just wrong to eat fish in their own fuckin' house." you giggle.

"fuck, we were in that bathroom for hours."

"i'm just glad the cleaning staff was so fuckin' nice about all the vomit. i woulda banned us for life." you say.

sevika cackles and kisses your head. "how are your feet?"

"still sore, but i can manage."

"don't be stupid." sevika grunts. you frown, not understanding what she means until she bends over and starts untying her shoes.

"what're you doing?"

"i'll trade with ya."

"sevika!" you laugh. "we are not the same shoe size."

she giggles and shrugs. "so? we only got three blocks left."

"have you ever even walked in heels before?"

sevika shrugs again. "no. but how hard can it be?" she asks as she wiggles out of her shoes. you snort.

"sevika, you're gonna break your ankle."

"so, i'll hold your hand." she says. she shoots a mean glare at you, like she's daring you to protest further. you just roll your eyes and slip your heels off.

"i really don't wanna visit the hospital tonight, sev."

"i'll be fine." she giggles, handing you her fancy dress shoes and taking your heels in her hands.

you laugh as you watch her slip into them, standing with a slight wobble, before turning around and crouching to tie her shoes on your feet for you.

"my prince charming." you giggle. she winks up at you.

"i'm the one in the fancy slippers now, babe. think that makes me cinderella."

sevika helps you stand, and you sigh in relief at the feeling of your feet flat on the pavement. "thank you, love." you say, kissing her cheek. sevika winks at you, then weaves her arm in yours.

"anytime, dear."you start your walk back with slow, careful steps, holding onto sevika's arm and eyeing her feet in your stilettos. but, after a few moments, sevika lets out a scoff and straightens her spine. "this isn't so bad." she giggles. "look, i bet i could even--" she jumps a bit, and you cringe as she does.

"sevika! be careful!" you laugh.

your wife giggles, then starts jogging ahead of you. "oh, babe, these are easy. fuck are you complaining for? look!" she starts a little jig. you're shaking your head in disapproval, trying your best to swallow back your laughs. but when sevika trips and falls face first into your neighbor's front yard, you can't help but cackle.

kofi

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[kawaiijohn]

Storms! Friday 3/14 and Saturday 3/15

🇺🇸 there hasn't been a day 2 (tomorrow) high risk severe weather forecast since 13 years ago in 2012.

this has happened three times. ever.

tomorrow is looking to possibly be a significant tornado outbreak preceded by another tornado/wind storm outbreak today late into tonight.

The NWS does NOT use strong language unless they are certain something IS going to happen.

So for them to be this certain an outbreak is going to happen means /it is likely going to happen/

Today/Tonight

...SUMMARY... A regional outbreak of severe thunderstorms is likely this afternoon through tonight across parts of the Lower/Mid Mississippi Valley and portions of the Lower Ohio Valley and Mid-South. Numerous tornadoes, several of which could be strong to intense, widespread severe gusts ranging from 60 to 100 mph, and scattered large hail up to baseball size all appear likely.

Satruday/Tomorrow/Late Tonight

...SUMMARY... A tornado outbreak is likely on Saturday across the central Gulf Coast States and Deep South into the Tennessee Valley. Numerous significant tornadoes, some of which should be long-track and potentially violent, are expected on Saturday afternoon and evening. The most dangerous tornado threat should begin across eastern Louisiana and Mississippi during the late morning to afternoon, spread across Alabama late day into the evening, and reach western parts of the Florida Panhandle and Georgia Saturday night.

As of 4:20pm Friday, here is our tornado risk for Saturday. Hatched means SIGNIFICANT, EF2+ tornadoes.

30% hatched hasn't been used in a long ass time.

Tell your loved ones who live in these areas about the weather. Have a plan. Have a go bag.

Do you know where your pets' carriers are? Can you get them contained/leashed/moved during an emergency?

Do you know where your medications are if you need to shelter?

Ask yourself these questions before bad weather strikes.

Don't be scared! Be prepared!!

[milksnake-tea]

━━ star-shaped .

War was never pretty. Death comes for both enemy and ally, and even as a healer, you cannot save everyone. Wearied by the war that seems to drag on for years, with no victory in sight, you join Jiaoqiu at the campfire for a rare moment of peace.

jiaoqiu x gn!reader

contains: based on leaks abt jiaoqiu's character stories !! but honestly its kinda implied in the quest but idk. has death, war, depictions of injuries and diseases, things are rough, can be read as platonic or romantic !!

word count: 1.7k

a/n: i love this man and his potential because goddamn war stories??? in my hsr??? sign me UP. also this was inspired by The Things They Carried by Tim Burton that i was forced to read in highschool. i loved the soldier death scene in that book so YEAH

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven @camellia-rabbit , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace

The man you killed had two eyes; one was closed, and the other a star-shaped hole.

You wake when the sky is still dark and the sun bathes the other side of the planet. Harsh winds beat unrelentlessly at the tent’s folds, and hail pelts at the sturdy fabric.

Some of your comrades, fellow healers, sleep soundly as they can on the battlefield, while others work tirelessly in the makeshift hospital next tent over, keeping an eye on injured and diseased soldiers’ conditions.

Fire crackles outside. The sound is sharp, yet barely audible over the snow storm.

With a sigh, you pull your sheets off of you and as quietly as possible, make your way outside the tent. You aren’t going to get much sleep anyway - you might as well do something useful.

The man you killed resurfaces in your mind. He had two eyes - one closed, the other a star-shaped hole.

You pull your fur-lined coat closer around you as you step out into the camp. Snow crunches under your boots and you have to hold your hood in place to shield yourself from the hail.

To say that this planet is freezing would be an understatement. Here, the cold chilled you from your bones to your skin, seeping into your veins and leaving icicles in its wake. Frostbite was an everyday occurrence here; you’ve had to amputate more toes and fingers than ever in your life.

A silhouette sits before the fire, their back turned to you. As you get closer, you make out tall, Foxian ears and the same winter coat you’re currently wearing.

“Jiao?” you wrinkle your nose as you near, suddenly slammed with the strong scent of chili. Your comrade acknowledges you with a brief flick of the ears, but nothing more.

You don’t blame him. This war has been a harsh one, with less soldiers returning to camp every time they’re sent out. Unknown territory and harsh weather conditions made the battles long and exhausting, and healers could only do so much.

Not to mention, time passed so quickly yet so slowly here. You don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been stationed, but it feels like several lifetimes.

Everyone is tired. You can see it in the hollowed cheeks, the eyes that have grown numb to death, and the despondent numbness that has overtaken the camp. They no longer cared who won or who lost. All they wanted was to return home in one piece.

The man you killed had two eyes. One was closed, and the other was a star-shaped hole.

You sit down next to Jiaoqiu on the log. The Foxian makes no move to push you off, only shifting to the side to help make room for you. Hugging your knees to your chest, you stare blankly at the drifting embers that dance in the air.

Jiaoqiu absentmindedly stirs at his soup. It boils in a small pot just above the fire, the thin liquid a red so bright it’d be threatening… if you had the energy to be threatened.

“It’s late,” you say into the crisp silence. “You should get some sleep before the sun rises. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Even as the words leave your mouth, you know it’s pointless. In war, sleep is something you have to force your body into. You have to lie down in the tents, look up at the fabric sky and listen to the hustle and bustle outside as soldiers are carried in and out, and close your eyes to the screams as yet another frostbitten knight has their arm cut off. You have to put yourself first, even for that small second, and allow yourself rest while your comrades fight on the front lines.

Sleep is a luxury that no one can afford. It is an escape. It is shameful.

And from the looks of Jiaoqiu’s darkened eye bags and mindless stirring, it’s a sin he won’t be partaking in tonight.

And neither will you.

Your gaze falls to the small bag of spices lying next to Jiaoqiu on the long. You can see peppercorns, cloves, fennel, cinnamon, and… star anise.

You look away.

The man you killed had two eyes. One was closed.

“How are you faring?” Jiaoqiu finally speaks. He doesn’t look at you and keeps his eyes on the flame.

Another gust of wind runs through you.

“As well as anyone else is, I suppose.”

Jiaoqiu swirls the soup with one hand. A bubble bursts and sprays the snow in little sizzling red freckles.

“How about you?” you ask.

The snow has already covered the soup’s spill by the time Jiaoqiu replies.

“As well as one can be,” he mutters. His hands, gloved with thick leather, clench once before relaxing.

A hollow chuckle leaves you. You sigh, kicking your legs out onto the snow and leaning back on the log. You look to the sky, to the cryptically beautiful cosmos. Blues, purples, and reds merge together like watercolor clouds above you, and small, white stars bejewel them.

Stars… Your gaze becomes lidded.

The man you killed had two eyes. One was a star-shaped hole.

“Do you think that man had a family?”

If Jiaoqiu was surprised at all by your question, he didn’t show it.

“Does it matter?” He takes a small taste of his soup. Despite it practically glowing in red, he doesn’t seem satisfied. “He was the enemy, need I remind you.”

You close your eyes briefly. “But I’m a healer.”

“You are.” Jiaoqiu opens his pouch and dumps in the rest of his chili rations - what for, you don’t know nor do you care to know. “You are also a soldier of the Xianzhou Yaoqing military. War always ends up in casualties, you know this. So did the soldier.”

There’s a bitterness in his tone that makes you wonder if he was talking to himself as well as to you. Your eyes soften.

“You did what you could, Jiao,” you offer. You want to put your hand on his shoulder, but you aren’t sure if that is appropriate, given the circumstances. “What happens outside the camp is beyond our control.”

Jiaoqiu sighs. His hand tightens around the ladle.

“Then what’s the point?” he whispers. His brows furrow, and his eyes open - a gem of amber reflecting years worth of grief and hopelessness. “What purpose do I have as a healer if I cannot stop my patients from hurtling towards their deaths?”

He turns to you, searching your face for any sort of answer that could satisfy him, that could reassure him that there was meaning, there was a point, that all of those bandages and surgeries and amputations weren’t for naught.

But you cannot answer him, for it is a question that no healer knows the answer to.

“You gave them another chance at life,” you say softly, unconvincingly. “That’s all that matters.”

“Even if that life is destined to end regardless of what I do?”

Dead eyes meet dull ones.

“What happens outside the camp is beyond our control,” you repeat blankly.

The man you killed had two eyes.

Jiaoqiu searches your gaze once more, before ultimately giving up. The amber of his eyes close, and he returns to the cauldron.

In a feeble attempt to console him, you go against your earlier thoughts and rest a hand on his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. But with the roughness of your gloves and the cold limiting the dexterity of your hands, it isn’t much - but it’s enough.

Jiaoqiu glances at your hand, then back at the cauldron.

“Do you feel bad?”

You blink, a bit caught off guard by the question, but you settle down soon enough.

“No,” you say after a brief pause. “He would’ve killed us if I hadn’t killed him.”

You lean forward, resting your head in your palm as you watch the flames swallow up what little tinder the others managed to collect.

“I’m just glad to be alive.” You don’t sound like you believe it.

Jiaoqiu’s ear flicks. You hear him stand up and scoop some of the soup up into his ladle, and dash out his tongue to taste it. His tail swishes, and his eyes widen momentarily, amber flashing like lightning.

A smile, a weary, tired, but grateful smile, slips onto his lips.

He turns to you, vitality returned, even if it’s just for a moment.

“Try this,” he says, holding the ladle out towards you. 

You eye it warily. The liquid drips down the sides of the ladle and drops down onto the snow below, sizzling the second red touches white. You didn’t think it was possible for the soup to get even redder, but Jiaoqiu somehow did it.

“I won’t die if I eat it, right?” you try to joke. Jiaoqiu huffs, his breath steaming in the air.

“You doubt my cooking capabilities?”

You shake your head. “No, but whatever you have in there doesn’t exactly look… edible.”

And yet you’re already leaning forward to taste his concoction. Jiaoqiu carefully holds the ladle still as you take a sip.

Instantly your senses are flooded with pure, unyielding heat. Fire blazes on your tongue, searing your throat and bringing tears to your eyes. Your stomach burns, and for the first time since you’ve come to this planet, you stop shivering.

It’s painful.

It’s exhilarating.

“It’s delicious,” you praise despite the coughs that wreck your being. “Although… did you have to add so much chili?”

Jiaoqiu hums out a laugh. “But that’s what makes it special.”

You don’t bother denying it. Instead, you laugh alongside him, eyes crinkling with joy instead of pain after years of constant war.

You’ll have to return to the war eventually. The sun is already beginning to rise, and soon the soldiers will be awakened to go out into battle once more. You’ll have to take over for your comrades who had spent the night in the hospital.

But you don’t have to do it just yet.

For now, you just want to enjoy this moment, this second of normalcy and peace in the battlefield.

The man you killed had two eyes.

One was closed.

The other was a star-shaped hole.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[baocean]

piss off your parents

chapter nineteen - of gold and ghosts

her phone

the storm hit much sooner than expected, within minutes of getting back onto the main road and heading back towards the cut, it was pouring.

normally, these kinds of conditions made you nervous, keeping two hands gripped to the steering wheel and the music down low.

today, you were laughing along to jj’s totally made up story, barely aware of the weather conditions outside. he didn’t care if you thought it was fake, he was only telling it to keep your mind off the hailing rain, to keep you laughing.

there was some old song playing in the background, one jj hummed the lyrics to as you pulled into his driveway.

you could only pull up so far, with the twinkie and a busted subaru taking up most the space, jj’s old truck parked behind them.

you turned your car off and bent over from the laughing pains jj was causing you, relentlessly firing one joke after the other.

“we’re gonna have to make a run for it.” he finally commented once he had caught his own breath.

you groaned and turned to stifle through the back of your car, hoping for a umbrella or jacket.

left with nothing, you threw your head back onto the headrest.

“on the count of three? then we just book it.” jj said, grabbing onto the door handle. “one..two…thr-”

another burst of your laughter cut him off as you threw your door open and jumped out of the car. he was quick to follow behind you, his own laughter ringing through the dusk.

the rain was coming in sideways, hitting you in the face as you took long strides towards the house. jj was yelling something through his giggles, but you shrieked over him.

bounding up the steps and out of the rain, you bent over and put your hands on your knees.

he made it to the bottom step, grabbing onto the railing and leaning on it for support, his other hand falling to his hip as he breathed out heavily.

jj looked up at you, still stifling a small laugh, and watched as you stood straight up again.

you sat at the top of the steps, grinning ear from ear while short bursts of laughter fall from your lips, drenched from head to toe.

your gold necklace perfectly placed around your neck, tank top completely soaked, sticking to your skin. your hair was stuck to your cheek, your hand reaching up to pull it free.

just for a second, you kind of looked like an angel. he was pretty sure that at any moment, a halo would appear around the crown of your head.

not an angel, maybe, but- at the very least, something that was much more divine than anything jj had ever seen.

then, you said, “this doesn’t count as a shower, so don’t say it does,” and his heart plummeted to his feet, his smile dropping along with it.

there it was, the feeling. the warmth of the sun and girly bedrooms, turn your cheeks pink, tingles in your stomach feeling.

it hit him like a truck, probably would have knocked him back a step if he hadn’t been holding onto the railing.

something as insignificant as an insult, was what got him. it made him want to scoff.

suddenly, his sight was brimmed with the color of your nail polish and the perfume you wore, stupid stuffed bunny’s and oversized knit sweaters.

and all he could think was- damn it, my friends were fucking right.

then, he was a little scared. because he had it bad for his fake girlfriend. who was way too good for him, who only needed him for one thing, and then you’d be on your way.

“you okay?”

his eyes lifted back up to you, your arms huddled around yourself to keep warm as you tilted your head down at him.

the line in your forehead brought jj back down to earth. that was comfortable, something he’d familiarized himself with. in some weird way, your forehead line was somehow his.

you smiled in reassurance, a little hesitant nonetheless, but jj was right back where he needed to be.

“completely, bunny. don’t worry about me. let’s get you inside.” he grinned, hauling up the rest of the stairs and pushing the front door open.

he turned back to you in the doorway. “and this totally does count for a shower.” you laughed again and went to fight him, but he had already taken off down the hallway, calling his friends names.

his phone

her phone

masterlist | next chapter

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Archaic Words: Winter

for your next poem/story

Bisnewid - covered with snow

Blenky - to snow a little

Blunk - to snow

Cassabully - the wintercress

Clamp - a mound of earth lined with straw to keep potatoes, beetroot, or turnips through the winter

Clart - a flake of snow when it is large and stick to the clothes

Common house - that part of a monastery in which a fire was kept for the monks to warm themselves during the winter

Downfall - a fall of hail, rain, or snow

Feeding storm - a constant snow

Flawghtis - flakes of snow

Flight - a light fall of snow

Flipe - a flake of snow

Glottening - a temporary melting of ice or snow

Greymin - a light fall of snow, just enough to cover the ground

Land cress - wintercress

Mart - an ox or cow killed at Martinmas, and dried for winter use

Midwinter - Christmas

Pinfallow - winter fallow

Skogger - the leg of an old stocking, used as a kind of gaiter in snow time

Snapdragon - a domestic amusement among young folks in winter; raisins are put into a large dish with brandy, which is set fire to. The party stand round the table, and boldly snap out and eat the blazing plums. This must be done quickly and boldly, leaving it optional whether you burn your fingers or your mouth. A little salt flung into the weakened flame heightens the sport, by giving a very cadaverous aspect to the countenance; and has farther the good effect of averting any risk of the liquor being drunk.

Snow bones - remnants of snow left after a thaw

Stivven - a road said to be so full of snow as to be impassable

Vante - a winter trap for birds, made of willow

Winter day - the winter season

Winter weeds - those small weeds in corn, which survive and flourish during the winter

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs Words Related to Winter ⚜ Word List: Winter

[hom3landr]

Tea with Honey

Bakerverse

Every relationship has its firsts. Homelander’s budding romance with his Baker is no different. But not all firsts are pleasant.

Homelander can’t wait any longer to visit her. His heart stings and aches from the weight of rejection. There is a hole inside him that he hoped the promise of family would heal. He has no experience with Fatherhood but he’d figured that it would be natural; instinctual. But one can’t learn love in a lab. Even his best intentions came up lacking, a fall from a roof seemed like such a necessary harmless casualty. He doesn’t know how to handle things that were raised soft. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, so he spits it out and seeks reassurance from the hands of a ghost.

Deep deep down, he can’t forget. But that’s ok. The Madelyn in front of him lifts two milk covered fingers to his mouth and he willingly takes the offering given. If she is a ghost then she is one with a warm body, an eager mouth, and a soft lap. She is one with assurances and words he needs to hear. She is one that he can keep on a leash and who won’t disappear into smoke. This is a ghost who knows his sins and lets him sigh them into her skin.

He can’t forget but he can control the memory left behind.

He tells her about you and she eagerly responds to his tales of your softness. She urges him to take you. If he could watch from outside himself, he would see it as the plea it is. For Doppelganger is willing to feed you to the lion, toss you like a piece of meat to a snarling dog, wave you like a flag in front of a bull. Homelander hears Madelyn’s voice as a kindness and doesn’t see it for the desperate distraction that it is.

“What are you waiting for?” She coos. “You’ve shown her that you can be good but have you considered that she longs for the raw power you hold? Once she has experienced your strength then she will beg you to take her.”

It’s what he wants to hear. He’s proven that he can be good yet still your kisses remain sweet and your touches light. The beast within him is growing more difficult to quiet when it howls for that sweet heat between your legs. Your gentility is starting to feel like rejection. The hunger inside him is an empty ache. He needs to take up space in you.

———-

He grins at the fat raindrops that dampen his hair as he leaves the cabin. The ozone is a pleasant scent that lingers in the back of his throat and on his tongue. It tastes like power. He can relate to the wild fury of a thunderstorm. He wishes that his rage could also be seen as something natural and not some sort of flaw. Thunderstorms can rain hail and destruction without consequence and people will still find comfort in the rumble of thunder. Perhaps that is another reason why Stormfront makes him so bitter, he envies that she takes on the characteristics of the storms he loves so much. How dare she show her edges and still be adored?

But Stormfront can’t have you. You’ve told him as much. You admitted how much she gets under your skin. You told him that you don’t trust her and that the very sound of her voice makes your flesh crawl.

The only storm you’ll know is him.

————

Homelander’s hunger for you clouds his judgment and the cracks of thunder echo the hot pounding of his arousal as he contemplates his plan. He can’t wait to surprise you and finally show you what he’s capable of. He’s on autopilot as he flies to your apartment, mind busy with fantasies. He intends to make you scream so loud that even the fiercest weather would be deafened by your pleasure.

He lands on your fire escape and knocks cheerfully on your window. He can hear you startle through the walls, your heartbeat fluttering with surprise. He leans back on his heels and crosses his arms under his cape. He has to suppress a grin when he sees your distorted face through the rain smeared glass. You’re a watercolor painting and Monet can go fuck himself cause your beauty makes his works no more than trash. He longs to keep you hidden away so only he can appreciate you.

You open the window wide so he can climb inside. His wet cape drips puddles all over your floor and your brow furrows briefly at the mess before meeting his gaze with a quizzical smile. He takes a brief glance behind you to inspect your place. He hasn’t been inside since that perfect Christmas night and without the decor it’s painfully obvious that your apartment is in a poor state. He huffs a tiny laugh to himself. It wouldn’t take much to convince you of structural damage. He’ll make sure you have a place to stay.

“I didn’t know you were coming over! I’d have made dinner.” You lament, flustered at being caught in such an unprepared state. He waves your concern away. As pleasant as your cooking sounds, he still fully intends to eat.

“I wanna show you something.” He replies with a smile, gesturing to the open window behind him. He’s surprised that he hasn’t done this sooner. What better way to wow you than to give you a practical application. He’s been good but now he’s starving for you to see behind the gentleman’s mask he wears. He takes a closer look at you. You’re wearing nothing more than an old white t-shirt and some sleep shorts. He thinks if he looks close enough he can see the shadow of your nipples through the material. With the way it’s pouring, he’s bound to get an even better look soon.

Madelyn’s voice still echoes in his ear.

He’s so excited that he doesn’t notice things he’d usually be laser focused on. He doesn’t register the shiftiness of your eyes or the anxious way you fidget every time the thunder rumbles. Your heart is racing because you must still be surprised by his arrival. The scent of fear can’t be because of him. You were probably watching something scary. He can hear the strains of a true crime podcast that you’d turned down playing on the tv.

It’s not because of him.

“Right now?” You ask, nervously scratching your arm as a streak of lightning briefly lights up the sky. His hackles instantly rise at your apparent lack of enthusiasm.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” He replies sharply, sharper than he usually is with you. The instant rejection is a fierce sting to his ego. His fantasy already isn’t working out how he planned and he’s starting to feel annoyed and out of sorts. He was so sure you’d be wowed but apparently you’re feeling prissy tonight.

You wince at his tone. You glance anxiously out the window and bite your lip. He begins to tap his foot in impatience. You exhale roughly as though you’re preparing yourself for some great trial.

“I’m sorry you came all this way. I’m not feeling well so maybe we should reschedule. You’re welcome to stay and watch a movie! I can order us some takeou…” You don’t get to finish your sentence.

“I didn’t come here to watch a fucking movie!” He snaps and he hates the way you flinch. It makes his throat tighten up and his chest ache with hurt. You’re making him feel mean and foolish, needy in the way he seeks your attention.

This is all wrong. You’re not being you.

“We don’t have to watch a movie! I have some board games and I know I have a deck of cards somewhere.” You try to do damage control but your continuous deflections only make him more frustrated. Your gaze is wary now; it’s the first time you’ve been wary around him.

He stomps over and grabs your arm firmly. It’s not tight enough to bruise but you can’t pry him off as he guides you over to the window. You struggle and try to stutter out excuses and explanations but he doesn’t want to hear it. He scoops you up in his arms and is out on the fire escape in the blink of an eye. The rain immediately drenches you and he’s so frustrated that he doesn’t even register the way your clothes cling to your form.

“Stop whining. You’re gonna fucking love this. Don’t worry.” He attempts to soothe you. You have to like it. You have to like him. You’re frozen solid in his arms but he knows you’ll relax once you’ve adapted. Without a warning he shoots up into the air like a rocket.

It’s beautiful up in the storm clouds. Despite the flashes of lightning, Homelander knows you are safe even up in the sky. He can sense the sizzle in the air and smell the ozone before electricity splits the sky. He’d never let you be harmed. He wants to share this with you. He wants you to know this part of him. This is what you hold in your hands when you kiss him.

He looks down at you, anxious to see the awe on your face. He wants to smell your need for him mixed with the heady smell of ozone. But instead he’s met with your pounding heart and trembling form. Your hands are curled into icy claws and your breathing is rapid and shallow. Tiny pained noises escape your mouth with every panicked heave. You’re fucking terrified.

“It’s not that bad. I’ve got you.” He reassures you but he’s not even sure you can hear him right now. You shake your head jerkily and a wail escapes you as lightning flashes in the distance.

His heart drops and shatters on the ground far below as he realizes that this isn’t some passing anxiety.

Homelander wants to fucking shake you in anger. How come you’re overreacting now? This is him. You’re supposed to share this with him. He’s giving you this privilege and you’re spitting it back in his face.

You’re supposed to love (him) this. Why don’t you?

“P…please,” You manage to stutter out weakly. “Can we go back now?”

He should fucking drop you.

His fingers twitch with temptation. Of course he’d catch you, but you’d learn there are things worth crying about.

You anxiously paw at his chest.

“I want to go down now!” You sob. His fingers twitch again. You don’t smell like brown sugar anymore.

He startles as he feels a sharp sting across his cheek. You’ve grown wild in your terror now. While he lacks the capacity to bruise, the shock of the impact still has him rattled. Your chest heaves.

“PutmedownPutmedownPutmedown!” You repeat in a furious panic as you pound on his chest with your hands. Your fight response is fully activated and logic is clearly no longer in the picture as you lash out at the very thing keeping you in the air.

He almost lets go.

But instead he slowly glides back down, drawing out your torment out of spite. He drops you coldly onto the slick metal of the fire escape. You grasp the bars like a lifeline and Homelander’s nose wrinkles as you spit bile. You still haven’t ceased wailing.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” He hisses. His mood is blacker than the stormy sky. You don’t even look wounded. You might as well still be stuck in the air as you tremble and wheeze.

He wants to put his hands over his ears to block out your cries. He wants to fly away to safety. He wants to crush your skull. He wants to pull you into his arms and kiss you senseless till you calm. He wants to hold you. He wants to kill you. He wants to beg your forgiveness.

He wants. He wants. He wants.

As if on autopilot himself, he scoops you back up into your arms to carry you inside. He deposits you on the couch, gentler this time despite his whole body shaking with restraint. You curl up into a ball and hide your face from him.

This is like Ryan all over again.

He clenches his fists and storms into your kitchen in a rage. He needs distance from you before he does something rash. He paces like a caged animal in the small space. His reflection in the glass cabinets is judgemental but he refuses to acknowledge them. He ignores the soft calls of his name itching at the back of his consciousness.

“Look at me, Tiger.”

“You need to calm down John.”

“Pathetic! She’s gonna fucking hate you just like everyone else does.”

He slams his fists down on your counter and he hears a crack.

FUCK

His eyes land on a lone mug on your counter. It’s colorful and chipped and so you that the unexpected rush of endearment he feels helps direct him out of his rage. His brow furrows as an idea begins to form. He can fix this. He just needs to do what you would do. He looks around, pointedly avoiding the cabinets. He sees a box of tea bags. He exhales sharply. He opens the fridge and fills the mug with water from your filter. He heats it with his vision till it's bubbling. He dips the tea bag in it and with one last flourish because he’s not sure if it’s safe to face you yet, he locates a container of honey that he gives a generous squeeze.

He takes a deep breath as he exits the kitchen.

You’ve calmed down considerably although your head is still buried in your knees. Your breathing is a little steadier and your agonized wails have quieted into soft sniffles. You’re still shivering as the fading adrenaline and damp clothes send chills through your body. He grabs a blanket from a nearby basket as he tentatively walks over. He sets the tea down on the coffee table in front of your spot on the couch and wraps the blanket around your shoulders. It feels strange, taking care of somebody else. Especially someone he’s still angry at.

“I’m sorry,” Your words are shaky and muffled. You sound so sad. “I’m so so so sorry. I ruined everything”

Homelander freezes, his brow furrowed in confusion. You’re apologizing?

“I have a phobia and I should have said something but it happened so fast. I was so scared and I lost control and panicked. I shouldn't have hit you.” Your voice is thick with guilt.

“Please,” He scoffs, weirdly amused and a little unsettled by your concern. “You couldn’t have hurt me if you tried. Now c’mon and look at me.”

You lift your head. Your eyes are red and swollen.

“I shouldn’t have hit you.” You reiterate and Homelander’s chest tightens. “I’m sorry. It was wrong.”

For a moment the silence is deafening. The sincerity in your gaze unsettles him. You reach out and your fingers tenderly brush the area of impact. It’s not tender. It barely even hurt

Shocked hysterical laughter starts to build in Homelander’s throat at the solemn look on your face.

Well fuck.

Isn’t that a fucking first.

You watch him quietly as he doubles over and holds his stomach. It’s not a laugh of amusement and if he was an outside observer he’d realize just how wounded it sounds. It’s pure emotional release.

You’d barely even given him a love tap. You’re sitting over there with your big wide weepy eyes as though you’d fucking beat him senseless. You’re acting as if you’d thrown him into a fucking oven.

He wheezes until his chest hurts. All the repressed anger and anxiety now flooding out in sheer astonishment. He was so sure you’d hate him.

He feels something warm wrap around his shoulders and his giggles begin to quiet. He looks over to you only to startle for a second at how close you are. You’ve wrapped the other end of the blanket around him. Your expression is soft but unreadable. You rest your forehead against him and he shudders.

“I…” He pauses. He can’t quite articulate what he wants to say. It’s not your fault. He didn’t pay attention. He didn’t listen. But admitting such feels like a weakness. It chokes him.

“I made you some tea.” He says instead, pulling back to hand you the mug. His voice barely shakes.

You smile and as you cradle the mug and take a sip, he notices that you smell like brown sugar again.

“Tea with honey is my favorite.” You reply sweetly, after giving a pleased hum at the taste. He may not have said it out loud but he can tell you understood with the way you look at him. Things are so easy with you. He turns to bury his face in your wet shoulder as you sip.

“I forgive you.” He mumbles, half hoping you don’t catch it.

“I forgive you too” You reply.

He doesn’t sleep with you that night…at least in the primal sense. But it doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep on his chest once the two of you decide that a movie might be just the thing for a stormy night after all. Lounging on the couch, while dressed in some soft sweatpants, and with you warm and sleepy on his chest, he comes to the conclusion that this is just as good as fucking anyway. You make soft noise in your sleep and snuggle further into the whorls of hair on his bare chest. (Something you’re absolutely delighted by if your physical response at the reveal was any indication)

In fact, it might even be better than fucking.

He lazily decides that he can love storms enough for the both of you.

[the-griffons-saddlebag]

⚔️ 𝗡𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗺! Wond of Fireballs
Wand, rare (requires attunement by a spellcaster) ___ This wand functions as a “wand of fireballs.” However, during the wand’s creation, the spell’s transcription was riddled with arcane mistakes. As a result, casting “fireball” from the wand can lead to unpredictable outcomes. Whenever you cast the “fireball” spell from the wand, roll a d20 and use the table below to determine the spell’s effect. Regardless of the outcome, the spell’s effect is centered on the point you target with the wand and uses a save DC of 15. If the wand casts a different spell, any extra charges spent as part of using the wand increase the spell slot level of the new spell as well. | d20 | Effect | — | 1–4 | 𝙒𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙡. You cast the “flaming sphere” spell. This version of the spell creates a tightly-wound sphere of ragged, spinning wire. On a hit, the sphere deals piercing damage instead of fire damage. When cast in this way, the spell doesn’t immediately require your concentration; if you don’t choose to begin concentrating on the spell at the end of the turn you cast it, the spell ends early. | | 5–8 | 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙪𝙡𝙡. You summon a Large bull in the nearest unoccupied space to the targeted point. Use the giant boar’s statistics for the bull, except that the bull is made of pure fire and is an elemental instead of a beast. The bull takes its turn on initiative count 20, and it always attacks the creature closest to it on each of its turns. On a hit, the bull deals fire damage, instead of its normal type. A creature that touches the bull or hits it with a melee attack while within 5 feet of it takes 5 (1d10) fire damage. The bull remains for 1 minute or until it’s reduced to 0 hit points. You summon two bulls at the location when you cast the spell with 4 or 5 charges, or three bulls when you cast it with 6 or 7. The additional bulls appear in the nearest unoccupied spaces to the first bull. | | 9–12 | 𝙁𝙞𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡. You cast the “ice storm” spell instead. This version of the spell creates falling, flaming rocks instead of hail, and deals fire damage instead of cold damage. | ...Continued in the comment below! ___ ✨ Patrons get huge perks! Access this and hundreds of other item cards, art files, and compendium entries when you support The Griffon's Saddlebag on Patreon for less than $10 a month!

[daydreamer-much]

Whispers In The Quiet - Ahkmenrah x Reader

The museum was quieter than usual tonight.

No footsteps echoed from Larry’s patrols. No dinosaur thumps. Just the occasional whisper of wind against the glass roof, and the soft, steady rustle of fabric as Ahkmenrah moved through the hallways, golden robes trailing behind him like memories he couldn't quite escape.

You were sitting alone in the Egyptian wing, tucked in the shadow of a marble pillar, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. You hadn’t meant to stay this late. But the storm outside had turned violent- hail thrashed the windows and thunder cracked like cannon fire. Somewhere deep in your chest, old panic stirred.

And you couldn’t go home. Not yet.

Ahkmenrah found you there, shivering- not from the cold, but something older. Something worse.

His expression softened when he saw you. “Y/n?”

You blinked up at him, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “I’m fine,” you lied quickly, like a reflex.

Ahkmenrah’s brows drew together. He knelt in front of you, his hands gentle but firm as he reached for yours. “Please,” he said, voice low. “Do not lie to me. Not with eyes that haunted.”

You didn’t mean to fall apart. Not really. But there was something about him- his calm, his warmth, the way he always looked at you like you were someone worth saving- that cracked the dam wide open.

“It was just a memory,” you whispered, ashamed. “One I thought I buried.”

He didn’t ask for details. Not yet. Instead, he sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you in a way no one else ever had. “Memories buried alive,” he murmured, “have a way of clawing to the surface.”

You leaned into him then, and he wrapped his arm around you carefully, like you were made of glass. He smelled like sandalwood and something ancient- something holy. “They can’t hurt you here,” he said. “Not while I breathe.”

You looked up at him. “But you don’t. Breathe, I mean.”

He smiled faintly, brushing a thumb along your cheek. “Then let this heart beat for you instead.”

In that still moment- bathed in stormlight and silence- you let yourself believe it was true. That safety could be found in the arms of a boy who’d died thousands of years ago, but somehow made you feel more alive than anything else ever had.

____________________________________

The museum changed after that night.

Not in the way it looked, but in the way it felt.

You started staying late more often- not always out of fear, but because of the peace you found there. And because of him. Ahkmenrah was always waiting, always watching you with that unreadable expression that somehow said everything.

You talked for hours. About his past—his childhood under the sun-scorched sky of ancient Thebes, the loneliness of immortality, and the burden of being born into power. About your present- what haunted you, what kept you awake at night, the way some scars never really faded even if no one else could see them.

One evening, he brushed your hair behind your ear, and your breath caught at the softness of it. He didn’t pull away.

"You fear being touched," he said quietly, not as an accusation, but a truth laid bare between you.

You nodded. “Most people don’t… mean it. When they touch.”

"I always mean it," he whispered, as though making a vow.

The intimacy grew in silence, in the way he sat closer each night, shoulders brushing, fingers grazing yours. One night, you leaned your head against his chest and listened to nothing- but you felt the warmth of him, and it was enough.

"You smell like old paper and cinnamon," you murmured into the linen of his robes.

"And you my dear," he said, nose brushing your hair, "smell like rain just before it falls."

You didn't kiss him then, though the air pulsed with the want of it. You didn’t need to. His hand threaded through yours and stayed there until the morning light forced him back into stillness.

A week later, he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed like a prayer.

“If I could choose to be alive again, just once more,” he said softly, lips barely a breath from yours, “I’d choose it to be with you.”

Your hands curled in his robes, grounding yourself in his presence. “Even knowing it would end?”

He opened his eyes. “Especially knowing it would end.”

And that night, you kissed him-finally- slow and tentative, like something precious you weren’t sure you were allowed to have. His lips were warmer than you expected, reverent in the way they claimed yours, and he held you like the world had finally stopped spinning too fast.

____________________________________

The nights after blurred into stolen touches and whispered laughter. You fell asleep once on the stone bench in his wing, curled in his lap, and when you woke to find his arms still around you, tears pricked your eyes.

"You don't have to protect me, you know," you whispered, voice cracking.

"I don't have to," he agreed. "But I want to."

____________________________________

The museum was empty again. Larry had left early. You wandered, restless, until you found yourself- as always -drawn to the golden light of the Egyptian wing.

Ahkmenrah was already there, waiting as though he felt you coming.

You weren’t sure when the way he looked at you started to burn. But lately, every glance carried weight. And tonight, as your eyes met, something unspoken passed between you. Something heavier than silence.

“You were with him,” he said after a moment. Not accusing- just… quiet.

You tilted your head. “With who?”

“The guard. The new one. He speaks to you like he knows you well.”

You stepped closer. “He offered me coffee. I said no.”

Ahkmenrah’s jaw tensed, then relaxed. “You did not have to explain.”

“But I wanted to.”

There was something electric in the space between you now. Something aching to break.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” he admitted. “As though he’s entitled to your smile. As though he could ever understand what you’ve given me.”

You reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “He doesn’t know me. Not the way you do.”

That broke him. His hand cradled your cheek, and then he kissed you- slow at first, but filled with weeks of restraint unraveling. His lips were soft, reverent, almost trembling with the effort to hold back.

You didn’t want him to.

You tangled your fingers in his robes and pressed closer. His hands explored you with sacred patience- touching, not taking. Every brush of skin asked permission. Every kiss answered yes.

When he lifted you into his lap and wrapped you in his warmth, you melted against him. Your shirt slid from your shoulder, and his lips followed- down your collarbone, reverent, worshipful.

“You are not mine to claim beloved,” he murmured against your skin, “but I would give up eternity to be yours.”

“Then be mine,” you whispered. “Just for tonight.”

His eyes met yours- dark, golden, eternal. “Then I am yours.”

You made love in the quiet stillness of ancient stone. No rush. No demands. Just gentle, aching devotion.

He held you like a wish. You touched him like a secret. And when you both trembled in each other’s arms, there was no past or future. Only now.

Only this.

And when dawn threatened to steal him back, he buried his face in your hair and whispered:

“Even in stillness, I will remember the way you loved me.”

—————————————————————

The next night, Ahkmenrah didn’t meet you in the usual spot.

You wandered the museum in silence, growing more uneasy with each empty hallway. He was always there. Always waiting.

Until tonight.

You finally found him standing alone before an ancient mural- a faded depiction of Ra guiding the sun across the sky. He didn’t turn when you approached.

“I thought you’d gone,” you said softly.

“I did not trust myself to see you yet.”

That caught you off guard. “Why?”

He closed his eyes. “Because today I watched him touch your arm again. Laugh with you like he was already inside your story.”

You reached for him. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean into it either.

“And I hated it,” he said- voice shaking, lower now. “Not with fire, but with fear. Fear that I am just a dream to you. Something you’ll wake from one day and forget.”

You pressed your forehead to his back, your voice trembling. “You’re the only thing that’s felt real to me in years, darling.”

Finally, he turned- slowly, reverently- and took your face in both hands.

“Then let me be real to you,” he whispered. “Let me show you that I am more than gold and silk and memory.”

And when he kissed you this time, it was deeper. Possessive. Not in a way that took, but in a way that held- like he was claiming space in you that no one else had ever been gentle enough to reach.

You barely made it to the shadows before his mouth found your neck, and your back met the cool stone wall of the temple. He kissed you like a man desperate to carve himself into your bones. His hands found your waist, your hips, your lower back- holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“You are not his,” he said against your skin. “You are not anyone’s. But tonight… you are mine.”

Your fingers tugged at his robe, baring the warmth of his chest, the place where a heart should beat. “I’ve always been yours.”

He made love to you again there, slow but unrelenting- grounded not in lust, but need. He worshipped you like something sacred, whispered your name like a prayer, and touched you like a man asking the gods to spare him this one human joy.

And afterward, as he held you on the cold stone floor beneath carvings older than time, he spoke so softly you almost missed it.

“I was a pharaoh once. A god to my people. But only with you… have I known what it means to kneel.

____________________________________

It began with the Tablet.

Or rather, the moment it cracked.

No one saw it happen. One morning, the tablet in the Hall of Conquerors had simply split clean down the middle. Not shattered. Not broken in chaos. But parted- like something old and tired had finally exhaled.

And Ahkmenrah... bled.

A cut bloomed across his palm when he picked up the broken half, crimson bright and impossible.

He stared at it in disbelief. Breathless.

Because he was breathing.

The museum pulsed with strange energy that night- electric, frayed at the edges. The relics hummed with a thousand silenced voices, and all around you, magic seemed to wilt gently back into the earth.

And when you found him- Ahkmenrah was standing under the moonlight in the Temple of Ra, barefoot, eyes wide, chest rising and falling like a man discovering the ocean for the first time.

“I can feel my heart,” he whispered, tears in his voice. “It hurts.”

You stepped forward, shaking. “That’s what being alive feels like sometimes.”

He reached for your hand. This time, the warmth was real. No illusion. No borrowed magic.

Just skin.

And blood.

And love.

“I don’t know why,” he said, fingers trembling, “but the curse- it's gone. The gods… they gave me back my life.”

He pulled you close, hands cradling your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours like he was anchoring himself there.

“I am mortal again. And I will die someday,” he whispered. “But for now… I get to live. With you.”

And this time, when he kissed you, there was no eternity hanging over it. Just time- ticking, sacred, fleeting. A kiss that tasted of rain and cinnamon and new beginnings.

____________________________________

Ahkmenrah moved in to your apartment three months later. The gold jewelry stayed, but the robes gave way to jeans and soft cotton shirts. He learned how to use a toaster with suspicious awe, but swore coffee was still inferior to Nile spice tea.

He got his own toothbrush. And took his first hot shower. He watched old movies with the reverence of a scholar, then sobbed through Wall-E like it was divine scripture.

You built a life together slowly- quietly. He took classes in ancient history under a fake name. You found a rhythm in shared grocery lists and tangled limbs under patchwork quilts.

Sometimes he woke up in tears, hands clutching at a life that was no longer endless.

And sometimes you’d touch his face in the dark and whisper, “I’m still here.”

He’d smile, broken and golden, and pull you to his chest where his heart beat- soft and real- against your ear.

You never stopped visiting the museum. Sometimes, the two of you would walk the halls at night with a flashlight, his fingers brushing ancient memories carved in stone. The world he left behind never left him. But it didn’t own him anymore.

One spring morning, years later, he knelt before you in a sunlit garden, hands shaking, and asked, “Will you be my queen in this life?”

And you whispered yes into his mouth like a promise made between stars.

____________________________________

Because sometimes… the gods do listen.

And sometimes… immortality isn't living forever.

It’s loving without fear.

Together, you learned to do both.

And this time-this-time—it was enough.

____________________________________

The morning light spilled across the kitchen like honey, slow and golden.

Ahkmenrah stood at the stove, barefoot, his hair tied back in a loose knot. He wore an old band tee that clung to his frame and a pair of sweatpants that should’ve been retired months ago. You leaned against the doorway and watched him- marveling, as you always did, at how someone once wrapped in divine silk now hummed off-key while flipping pancakes.

You snuck up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist.

“You’re burning them again,” you murmured into his shoulder.

“I am not,” he said, but he flipped one over and winced. “That one was a sacrificial offering.”

You laughed and kissed the base of his neck. “The gods accept your tribute.”

He turned in your arms, still holding the spatula like a scepter. “And what of my queen? What does she demand in return for her endless patience?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Coffee. And a cupcake.”

He grinned, eyes crinkling. “Your wish is- finally-within the scope of my mortal capabilities.”

You kissed him, slow and familiar, your hands finding the soft cotton of his shirt and the steadiness of the heart beating beneath.

This was the future you never dared imagine back when he was gold and stone and sorrow.

A future where time ticked softly instead of looming.

Where he aged slowly, beautifully- lines beginning to frame the corners of his eyes, smile-worn and loved.

Where you fought over closet space and took Sunday walks and kissed each other through dishes and deadlines and doubts.

Where he got sick sometimes, and you made soup. Where he stayed up with you when your nightmares came back. Where you reached for each other in the dark, and found each other every time.

It was ordinary.

It was sacred.

And as he handed you a burnt pancake on a chipped plate, winking as though it were treasure, you thought:

This is eternity.

Not the kind carved in stone.

But the kind made of morning breath and mismatched mugs, of whispered I love yous and soft laughter across shared pillows.

And when he caught you staring at him like you were still a little in awe, he smiled and said:

“You always look at me like I’ve hung the stars.”

You tucked yourself against his chest and whispered, “That’s because you’re the only miracle I’ve ever believed in.”