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blackpantherismyish · 10 days ago

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Tell Me You Missed It 💰

Modern!au Elias “Stack” Moore X Black!OC Harper Jones

Work Count : 4.3k

Authors Note: Sooo 😅 While I love Papa Smoke down, we know (s/o to @theethighpriestess) that Stack is Killmonger’s grandpappy. So yall might hate him just as much as the OC does. But I like me a slick mouthed southern nigga 🙂‍↕️🤭 I’m just saying. Warning, This is some smutty smut. So you might wanna check ya panties afterwards. Or just take them off all together, you do you. But enjoooy.

Setting: Downtown Los Angeles, a warehouse-turned-art gallery lit in warm gold and exposed brick. It’s First Fridays, and the place is buzzing with live music, neon cocktails, and art that screams sex and sorrow.

Harper feels it before she sees him.

That heat. That weight. That pull from somewhere low in her belly she thought she’d buried.

She turns, slowly. And there he is.

Stack.

Standing at the far end of the gallery in a black hoodie, gold chain catching the dim light, jaw set like he’d chewed through regret and didn’t care who bled for it. He looks good—too good—like time’s only made him sharper, thicker in the arms, and darker in the eyes. But it’s that look he gives her across the room that wrecks her. Like he’s not surprised to see her—like he knew she’d show up eventually.

Harper’s breath stutters.

It’s been a year and a half.

She’s had someone else. Someone safe. Predictable. Smelled like sandalwood and didn’t talk with his hands. But her body? Her body remembers Stack like recipe handed down through generations.

She adjusts the sleeve of her cream silk blouse and steels her spine. No weakness. Not tonight.

He moves through the crowd like it owes him space, people parting naturally. No words. Just a slow saunter until he’s standing in front of her, close enough to touch.

She says nothing.

Neither does he.

Then Stack leans in, slowly. Inhales. Right at the curve of her neck.

His voice comes low, gritty.

“You smell like someone else.”

Her stomach flips. “You’re bold.”

He doesn’t back off. “I’m pissed.”

A beat. Then..

“You been letting another man put his hands on you, Harper?”

“You been gone,” she shoots back, chin lifting. “What did you expect me to do, wait around?”

Stack doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften.

“I expected you to remember who taught you how to melt like that. Who made you shake without even takin’ your clothes off.”

Her eyes flicker. Her throat tightens.

“Don’t do this,” she warns.

But he’s already stepping closer, chest brushing hers. One hand lifts—gentle, almost reverent—and tugs her bottom lip free from between her teeth with his thumb.

“I can still smell him on your skin,” he murmurs. “But underneath that? You still smell like mine.”

Her legs threaten to give, knees brushing his.

“I’m not yours,” she whispers, but even she can hear the lie.

Stack’s lips graze the shell of her ear. “Then why are you shaking?”

Harper closes her eyes. One year, six months, two days. That’s how long she’s been trying to forget what it felt like to unravel under him. How she swore she wouldn’t go back.

But Stack doesn’t give you space to forget.

He leaves a scent. A rhythm. A hunger.

He exhales slow. “You let him lay next to you. But he didn’t know you. Not like I did.”

And he’s right. Her new man never touched the places Stack touched. Never pulled tears from her eyes with just a look. Never made her feel like fire and glass at the same time.

Harper wants to be angry. Wants to shove him back and spit venom. But instead, she just whispers.

“Why are you here, Elias?”

His answer is soft. “To take back what’s mine.”

The music shifts behind them, but it might as well be silence. Her pulse is in her throat. She hates how good he smells. Like smoke and recklessness and the kind of sex that ruins lives.

“Say the word,” he says, palm finally resting low on her waist. “And I’ll remind your body who it really belongs to.”

And she does.

She says nothing.

Just lets her fingers curl into his shirt.

And Stack?

He leans in and kisses her like he’s starving—like he’s reclaiming every inch. Like no other man ever existed.

Because in his world?

No one else ever did.

They take the elevator in silence.

But the air between them?

Loud as hell.

Stack doesn’t touch her. Not yet. He’s got that look on his face again—calm, composed, but she can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. That dangerous kind of patience. The kind that waits ‘til you’re begging.

The elevator dings at the 9th floor, and Harper steps out first, trying to act like her legs aren’t trembling with every step. Her heels click against the hallway floor, and each sound feels like a countdown.

Her body is not being helpful.

Her heart’s doing the most.

Her breath’s shaky.

And worst of all?

Her nipples are hard.

What the hell, she thinks, crossing her arms.

We’re not doing this. We’re not folding. He doesn’t get to come back in like this and—

But her body doesn’t care.

Her body’s a traitor.

She’s wet. Dripping even.

She knows it.

It’s shameful how easy her body remembers him—how it lights up just being near him.

Behind her, Stack unlocks the door to his condo with a subtle twist of the wrist. That familiar click of the lock sounds like temptation cracking open.

She steps inside first—and there it is.

The scent.

Dark. Musky. Him.

That wood-smoke, bergamot, and something dirtier beneath it. Something hers. Like the sheets still know what they used to do to each other.

She stands in the middle of the living room and dares herself not to sit. Not to lean. Not to remember.

Stack sets his keys on the counter, shrugs out of his hoodie.

Black tee underneath, clinging to his chest and arms like a second skin. Veins like anger. Tattoos she used to trace with her tongue.

She clears her throat. “You gonna pour me a drink, or just keep undressing slowly?”

He smirks. “Didn’t think you needed liquor to make bad decisions.”

She glares, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

Don’t smile, Harper. He wins if you smile. Be strong. Say what you came to say and—

Then his voice slices right through her.

“I can still see it,” he says, slow. “How your body looked the first time you let go for me. Shaking. Soft. Stupid pretty.”

Her thighs clench. Reflex.

“Betrayal,” she hisses at her body. “You’re acting brand new.”

Her inner demon cackles.

“Oh baby, this ain’t new. This is home.”

“I’m not gonna sleep with you,” she repeats, more to herself than to him.

Stack leans against the counter, arms folded, eyes raking her slow.

“I know,” he says.

“Your mouth keeps saying that.”

She hates that her knees feel loose.

Hates that her body’s already angling slightly toward him, like gravity’s rigged in his favor.

“We are NOT doing this,” she whispers internally.

Her nipples: We did it already.

Her thighs: It’s already started, boo.

Her inner demon, reclining in a fur coat with a wine glass: “Tell me again how ‘safe’ was supposed to be better than this?”

Stack pushes off the counter and walks up behind her.

Doesn’t touch. Just stands there.

She can feel him. The heat of him against her back. Her breath quickens.

“You feel it?” he murmurs, lips ghosting the shell of her ear. “This thing between us never left. You tried to clean me off—but I’m still under your nails.”

A soft, involuntary gasp escapes her throat.

“I hate how good you are at this,” she whispers.

He finally touches her—just two fingers at her hip. Light. Teasing.

“You hate that I know your body better than he does.”

And then—like her body had just been waiting for permission—she melts. Shoulders sink. Chin dips. A low, shameful moan coils at the base of her throat.

He turns her to face him. Doesn’t kiss her.

Just speaks softly.

“Last chance. Walk away. Or let me make your whole body remember who the fuck you really belong to.”

And Harper?

Her mouth says nothing.

But her body?

That damn traitor leans in.

Stack doesn’t take her to the bedroom.

Not yet.

He backs her into the corner of the living room instead, low lights casting shadows across the hardwood floor. Every move is deliberate, every inch between them charged. He’s still got one hand grazing her hip—like he’s reading her pulse through the silk of her blouse.

Harper stands stiff, jaw set, arms crossed again like armor. But it’s useless. Her body’s already betrayed her, and he knows it.

He leans close, nose brushing her temple as he whispers, “So this who you replaced me with?”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t.”

“Lemme guess,” he says, lips grazing her hairline. “Says nice shit. Calls you ‘babe.’ Sends ‘good morning’ texts. Fucks like he’s worried about messing up your makeup.”

She doesn’t respond.

He takes that as a yes.

Stack chuckles, low and smug. “That the kinda love you settled for?”

Harper’s spine snaps straight. She steps back.

“Settled?” she echoes, sharp. “You talk like you didn’t vanish. Like I had options.”

Stack’s eyes flicker, but he doesn’t flinch.

“I had to go,” he says, calm. “You know why.”

“No,” she bites. “I know what you said. And then I watched you disappear like I was just… noise.”

He’s quiet. But not guilty. Not apologetic. Just still.

“I didn’t leave ‘cause I stopped loving you,” he finally says. “I left ‘cause I didn’t know how to keep loving you without breaking everything around us. You included.”

“That’s real poetic,” she mutters. “But you still left me standing in the wreckage.”

He steps forward again. Slower this time. Hands now by his side like he’s trying to keep them off her.

“I didn’t come here to play therapist,” he murmurs. “I just know what I smelled on your skin tonight wasn’t love. It was… safe. Easy.”

“Why is that so bad?” she snaps.

“‘Cause you’re not easy, Harper,” he growls, stepping in close again. “You’re wild. You’re all sharp teeth and wet heat and fucked-up loyalty. And safe?” He scoffs. “Safe don’t know what to do with a woman like you.”

Her chest is rising and falling faster now. She’s furious.

And turned on.

“You don’t get to romanticize this now,” she hisses. “You broke me. And now you’re mad I let someone else hold the pieces?”

“I’m mad you gave those pieces to someone who ain’t built to hold you whole,” he snaps, voice dropping lower. “You let someone soft put his name on scars I carved.”

Silence. Thick as honey.

Her demon rises again, smug: “You gonna slap him or kiss him, mama?”

Her body? Already making room for him.

Stack softens, just a little. His hand lifts again—not greedy, not forceful—just a knuckle brushing the dip between her breasts. The whisper of contact sears her.

“I know you hate me,” he says, eyes locked to hers. “But I also know when you touch yourself, it’s still my name that slips out your mouth first.”

Her breath catches. Her mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

He leans in, nose barely brushing hers. Not kissing. Just feeling.

“You remember how I sound when I’m inside you?” he whispers. “The way I used to lose my mind when you grabbed my wrist, trying to hold me still even though you didn’t want me to stop?”

“Stop,” she breathes. It’s not convincing.

His lips hover over hers. “Say it like you mean it.”

Her voice cracks. “You’re so arrogant.”

He smiles, slow and sharp. “No. I’m just the only one who ever matched you.”

And there it is.

Her hands ball into fists at her sides.

Her voice is low, strained: “You’re a bastard.”

“And you,” he says, gently taking her hand and pressing it flat to his chest, “are still burning for me.”

Harper feels his heartbeat under her palm. Strong. Steady. Like a drum calling her back to a rhythm she swore she forgot.

Her head shakes, but she doesn’t pull away.

He leans in again, lips barely brushing her cheek now. Whispering heat.

“Tell me you don’t want me to lay you down on that couch and make you forget how to spell his name.”

She exhales like it hurts. Her thighs press together. Her body betraying her again. Skin flushed. Breath ragged.

But her pride? Still hanging on. Barely.

Harper stays quiet a long moment, hand still pressed to his chest like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Stack watches her with that steady, unreadable gaze—but there’s something in his eyes now. Something vulnerable beneath the usual swagger.

And maybe it’s that.

Maybe it’s the way his calm is cracked just enough.

Or maybe it’s the way her body’s been screaming for him since the moment he walked back in.

But her voice finally comes, low and bitter and beautiful.

“You don’t get to say my name like that and pretend you didn’t leave me starving.”

His brow lifts, but she’s not done.

“I begged for you. You remember that?” Her voice trembles. “Sat on that floor by your door like a fool, texting you for days. Weeks. Watching your read receipts pop up with no reply. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I stopped wearing red lipstick because I couldn’t stand seeing it smudged without your mouth being the reason.”

Stack’s jaw tightens.

She steps in now, close enough to make him shift.

“I had to teach myself how to not ache at the sound of a Hellcat engine. Had to unfollow every playlist that reminded me of the way you used to fuck me through my own cries.”

A pause.

Her voice is a whisper now. “And then you show up smelling like memory and sex and say I settled?”

Stack doesn’t speak.

He just lowers to his knees.

Smooth. Silent.

Like he knows words won’t save him.

Like he knows what she really needs is not an apology from his mouth—

But a redemption sung between her thighs.

Her breath catches when his hands move up her calves, deliberate. Slow. He presses a kiss to her left knee, then the right. Soft. Reverent.

And still doesn’t say a word.

She watches him from above, chest heaving.

When he reaches for her waistband, she doesn’t stop him.

Just whispers, “You left me so fucking empty, Elias...”

He looks up at her, hands still at the hem of her pants.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

And then he peels her out of them like something sacred.

Her legs are trembling already. Rage and arousal tangled like a noose in her stomach. She’s still mad. Still hurt.

But when his mouth settles between her thighs, God help her, all of it folds.

He starts slow. Tongue soft. Patient. He kisses the inside of her thigh like he missed it. Like he dreamt of it. Then another kiss, closer. Then a lick—flat, slow, upward—until her whole body arches like she’s trying to rise from her own skin.

Her hand flies to his hair, fingers tightening. Not to push him away.

To anchor.

Stack moans into her, low and deep, like he’s getting drunk off the taste of her. Like this is his confession.

He eats her like she’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Like she’s a punishment and a prayer wrapped in silk and salt.

She wants to be stubborn. Wants to keep her pride tucked in her throat.

But her hips grind against his face, slow and filthy, on instinct.

“Stack,” she breathes, breath hitching. “Fucking hell…”

He sucks her clit just enough to make her legs shake—then pauses, pulling back an inch.

“I should’ve never left,” he says, voice rasping against her. “You hear me, Red? I fucked up.”

Her head falls back with a moan. She’s not ready to forgive him.

But she can’t deny the way his tongue carves apologies deeper than any words ever could.

“I waited for you,” she gasps, breath sharp as glass.

“I know,” he whispers, licking her slow, again. “I’m here now.”

And when he dives back in, hands gripping her thighs, tongue relentless and sin-slick and full of sorrow—Harper finally lets herself unravel.

Not for him.

But for her.

Because if she’s gonna burn, she might as well cum with the blaze.

Her thighs are still shaking when he lifts her into his arms.

Stack doesn’t rush.

He holds her like she’s breakable, but walks with the kind of purpose that says he’s far from done. Mouth grazing the crown of her head, beard brushing her forehead as he carries her to the bedroom they used to know like scripture.

The bed still has the same navy sheets.

The same creak when he drops her gently onto the mattress.

Harper blinks up at him, dazed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. Her chest rises and falls with soft, ragged breaths, like her body’s still catching up to what just happened downstairs.

But he doesn’t give her time to come down.

He strips for her. Slow. Intentional.

Shirt first. Over his head, revealing skin she used to mark up like it was hers. Her eyes trace every line of him—shoulders, chest, those veins in his arms that always pulsed when he pinned her wrists. Then the jeans. Undone with one hand. Dropped low. His dick is hard, heavy, angry with need.

He catches her staring. His mouth quirks.

“You remember how good this felt?” he murmurs, crawling over her, settling between her thighs like a prayer that never really ended.

She glares through her arousal. “You’re really not gonna let me hate you in peace, huh?”

His laugh is low. Dark. “Nah, Red. I’m gonna fuck you in pieces.”

And then he sinks into her.

No tease this time.

Just a long, slow stretch of him filling her until her back arches, a sob slipping from her mouth as her body gives way. He feels impossibly big inside her—thick, deep, like he’s trying to reach the parts of her that moved on.

And maybe he is.

Stack groans against her throat, hips still for a moment as he drinks in the feeling of being back where he swore he wouldn’t return.

“You feel like heaven,” he growls. “Like I’ve been in hell without you.”

Harper grips his back, nails sinking in. “You put me in hell, Stack.”

His thrust rolls deep. Slow. Controlled.

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. I hate myself for it. I hate that I missed you… missin’ me.”

Another thrust.

Deeper.

She gasps, thighs squeezing his waist.

“I missed everything,” he breathes, forehead pressed to hers. “Missed your damn laugh in the morning. The way you tuck your leg under you when you talk shit. Missed those tears you try to swallow when you moan. God, Red…”

He fucks her through the guilt. Through the ache. Through every word he should’ve said a year and a half ago.

“I used to jack off just to the memory of your sounds,” he rasps. “Now I’m inside you, and I swear to God, I’m never—fuck—never leaving you empty again.”

Her moan is strangled, raw. She’s too close. He feels it.

She grabs his jaw, kisses him hard. Sloppy. Teeth and tongue and fury.

“You don’t get to promise me forever,” she gasps against his mouth.

He thrusts harder now. The pace filthy. Deep and punishing.

“I’m not promising you,” he growls, voice cracking. “I’m begging.”

She breaks.

Clenches around him, mouth wide in a silent scream, tears streaking down her cheeks as her orgasm rips through her like an exorcism.

And Stack watches her.

Takes her in like scripture he’s re-learning by heart.

Only when she’s trembling under him—boneless, dazed—does he let go, burying himself deep, moaning her name like a man saved and ruined all at once.

He spills into her with a raw, broken sound.

And stays there.

Inside her.

Like maybe if he stays deep enough, long enough, she won’t drift again.

Like maybe this time—

He’ll be enough.

Harper thinks she’s done.

She thinks her body’s wrung dry, trembling with aftershocks, spine melted into the sheets. Stack’s still buried inside her, breathing hard against her neck, weight grounding her like a storm finally passed.

But then—

He moves again.

Not to pull out.

But to stay in.

To grind.

Slow. Deep. Deeper.

She whimpers. A mix of overstimulation and don’t you dare stop.

Stack lifts his head, slick with sweat, his short fade becoming fuzzy around his temples. His gaze is wild now—darker, unhinged, like that first round was just the appetizer. His hand slides between them, and she already knows what he’s looking for.

“Stack… ‘Lias—” she warns.

But he just smirks, fingers finding her still-swollen clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Baby,” he murmurs, dragging circles that make her hips jerk, “I waited over five hundred days to taste you again. You think I’m tapping out now?”

Her legs twitch, trying to close, but he shifts his weight and spreads her wider, deeper. One long, dragging thrust hits the spot that makes her eyes roll back, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

“No,” he growls, grabbing her wrist and pinning it to the bed. “Don’t hide from me.”

She’s panting now, helpless under him.

And he’s just getting started.

“You know how many nights I fucked my own hand thinking about this pussy?” he mutters, nipping her collarbone. “How many times I said your name and nearly bit through my damn tongue?”

“Stack—fuck—”

He fucks her through it. Through the whimpering. Through the heat climbing her spine like it’s trying to set her on fire from the inside.

“You think some new man could replace this?” he pants. “You think anybody else could have you like this?”

Harper cries out, her body folding up into him, and he lets her. Hooks her legs over his arms and pounds into her now, the bed frame knocking against the wall, no rhythm but desperation. No words but moans and filth.

Her nails drag down his back. He doesn’t care.

Her voice cracks on his name again. He grins through his groans.

“Say it again.”

She can’t even speak.

He slaps her thigh. “Say it.”

“Elias,” she sobs, eyes glassy. “God, I—”

“Louder,” he demands, fucking her harder. “Let the neighbors hear what a year and a half of missing me sounds like.”

She screams it this time.

And Stack loses his damn mind.

He flips her before she can even catch her breath, dragging her hips up and back onto his lap, sinking into her from behind. The mirror across the room shows her ruined—spine arched, hair messy, eyes half-lidded and mouth open. And him, behind her, looking like sin in motion.

He wraps her hair around his fist and tugs gently, leaning in.

“You see that?” he rasps against her ear. “That’s mine.”

She tries to push back against him, match his rhythm. But he’s relentless now—chasing another orgasm like it owes him rent. Her hands grip the headboard. Her body screams. And when she starts to come again, she doesn’t even recognize the sounds leaving her mouth.

He follows her over the edge again, but keeps going. Barely slowing. Just kissing her shoulder, still buried deep, voice husky and low.

“We’re not done,” he whispers.

“I want to break every man outta your system. One thrust at a time.”

Stack’s thrusts slow.

His hands ease up.

And the storm that’s been raging between them finally begins to quiet.

Harper’s hips tremble, lips parted, a soft whimper caught in her throat. She’s boneless, fucked raw, soaked in sweat, and still somehow… floating.

Stack stays inside her a moment longer. Just breathing. Forehead pressed to the curve of her shoulder, his hands cradling her hips like she’s something fragile now—like after all the mess and madness, he wants to worship what’s left of her.

He kisses her back.

Then again.

Then again, slower. Softer.

He pulls out carefully, groaning low as he settles them back onto the bed, tugging her into his chest like instinct. Like muscle memory. Like home.

Harper blinks through the haze, dazed and sore in all the right ways. Her head rests on his chest now, the steady beat of his heart drumming under her cheek. His hand strokes her spine—up and down, up and down—his other hand brushing her hair off her face with the kind of care that unravels her more than the sex ever did.

It’s quiet.

But not empty.

“Red,” he murmurs finally, voice scratchy and thick with sleep and something heavier, “I never stopped thinking about you. Not even for a day.”

She swallows hard.

“I was angry,” she admits, barely a whisper. “But I never stopped loving you either.”

Stack presses a kiss to her forehead. Long. Lingering.

“I can’t give you a perfect man,” he says softly, “but I can give you one who never forgets your name. Who knows your body like his own and your moods like weather. One who left, yeah… but never really stopped building a life around your ghost.”

She closes her eyes.

“Don’t say this unless you mean it.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, with his lips at her temple, he says it.

“Come home, Harper.”

Her chest catches.

That little ache she’s been nursing for a year and a half cracks wide open.

Because this is what she needed. Not just the sex. Not just the confessions. But this warmth. This peace.

This invitation back into belonging.

She nods, nuzzling into his skin. “Okay.”

Stack exhales, relief and something like wonder bleeding from his chest.

And like that—it settles.

They drift off tangled together. Her leg hooked over his hip. His hand on her ass, lazy and possessive even in sleep. Their breaths syncing. Bodies marked. Hearts a little bruised but beating in the same rhythm again.

The city hums outside.

But in that room, under those navy sheets,

Harper finally sleeps like she’s safe again.

And Stack?

Stack sleeps like he got his heart back.

——

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#SoundCloud #stack moore #stack Moore X OC #sinners #sinners fanfiction

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missadangel · 5 months ago

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The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

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XXIV. Grief

Proditio sola veritas haeret.

Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.

Flames engulfed the ships of the Roman navy, illuminating the vast dark Mediterranean Sea with a haunting glow. In a desperate bid for survival, soldiers leaped into the churning waters, their forms silhouetted against the firelight. The night air was filled with their frantic shouts and the splashes of bodies breaking the surface, the echoes of their struggles piercing through the stillness of the night, a chilling symphony of chaos in the open sea.

In the dead of night, enemy ships loomed in the shadows, shrouded by an eerie stillness. Suddenly, a carefully orchestrated and merciless ambush struck without warning. Marcus lay in his cabin, the soft glow of an oil lamp flickering gently nearby, where his loyal companion Octavius rested. The tranquil atmosphere shattered like glass when a bone-rattling roar sliced through the silence, a sound that reverberated like a thunderclap. In an instant, the ship they inhabited trembled violently as a massive ballista projectile—launched from a hidden catapult on a distant vessel—crashed into their hull, sending splinters flying and chaos erupting around them.

The ship convulsed violently as if it had been struck by a great earthquake, the timbers groaning in protest while flames licked hungrily at the hull.

Wooden fragments melted away as though caught in a relentless blizzard, cascading into the cool embrace of the sea, leaving the vessel to seemingly dissolve like parchment in a fire.

As the another catapult's deadly payload smashed into the ship, soldiers caught in the chaos became mere memories, their lives snuffed out in an instant by splintering timber and raging flames. Those molded by fear and urgency on the lower deck scrambled desperately, eyes wide with panic as they sought their generals, and they did, yet the single path to salvation became painfully clear: they must abandon ship, and they must do so swiftly.

As Marcus and his fellow soldiers gazed at the burning, wrecked ships surrounding them, a sense of urgency gripped them. The horizon beckoned with the promise of land, not too far from their current position—potentially enemy territory, but there was no time to choose. They exchanged quick, determined glances before plunging one by one into the cool embrace of the water, the weight of their fate pressing down upon them.

Nearby, soldiers clinging to the splintered remnants of a wrecked vessel noticed their departure. Just as they began to swim towards Marcus and his group, a fiery projectile from a catapult soared overhead, crashing into the water with a thunderous force that sent a towering wave crashing down around them.

Marcus felt his heart race as the water erupted into chaos, momentarily swallowing him whole. For a second, he thought he was lost in despair. The chaos of the waves was overwhelming. But then, just as suddenly as it had started, the storm of waves calmed down, giving them a moment to catch their breath.

Caught off guard during their brief respite, most of the soldiers had donned their heavy armor, a cumbersome burden that hampered their attempts to swim. Only Marcus and Octavius had taken the leap without the weight of steel, since they were wearing only their tunics, while their brothers struggled against the encroaching tide. The fight for survival had only just begun, and the shore felt tantalizingly away, even as danger loomed in the depths.

Gasping for breath, they collapsed onto the wet earth, the sandy ground pressing against their weary bodies. As the relentless waves crashed around them, Marcus, anchored by determination and aided by his steadfast second-in-command, fought valiantly against the tide. With every ounce of strength coursing through his muscles, he reached out to his struggling soldiers, encumbered by their heavy armor, which threatened to drag them beneath the churning surface. One by one, he pulled them from the clutches of the water, his hands straining, heart racing, until they lay safe upon the shore, their lives preserved by sheer willpower and camaraderie.

Marcus was horrified as he gazed at the nightmare unfolding in the sea. The navy of his army, built through months of hard work, was burning before his eyes. His soldiers—his brothers—whom he had trained so diligently and intensely, sacrificing sleep and spending less time with his family, were drowning. His hands balled into fists as the darkness of the night, the deep blue of the water, and the bright red of the flames reflected in his brown eyes.

His chest constricted with a heavyweight as memories of the inspiring speech he had delivered just days before flooded back to him, filled with unwavering confidence and fierce determination. Pride had surged through him as he looked upon his men, their faces radiant with determination, ready to conquer the enemy's city. Yet now, one by one, many of them were slipping beneath the dark, churning waves of the sea, their once-vibrant spirits extinguishing like flickering candles. In the distance, other ships of the fleet retreated like shadows fading into the horizon, their sails drooping in surrender. He felt no anger toward them; he understood their plight. He had commanded this course of action, knowing it was the only honorable choice for a leader.

His feet carried him toward the sea, and as he stepped knee-deep, Octavius approached from behind and touched his shoulder. "Acacius," he murmured.

"Whoever did this, Octavius," he said through clenched teeth. "I will take his life with my own hands."

“Do you believe we’ve been betrayed?” Octavius' voice was heavy with suspicion as he spoke. “You might be right; the timing is strikingly suspicious. Only we possessed the knowledge of our fleet’s carefully charted route—just the two centurions and the legates, privy to this crucial secret. Do you think one of them could be the mastermind behind this treacherous act?”

“Why would they do something like that, sir?” one of the soldiers asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Marcus paused, asking the same question to himself. He may not have had the words for the soldier, but one name stood out with unwavering certainty in his mind.

As dawn’s first light crept over the horizon, gilding the waves in soft hues of gold and orange, Marcus slowly opened his weary eyes. He found himself nestled in a concealed nook along the shore, accompanied by his two loyal soldiers and Octavius. One by one, they shook off the remnants of sleep, drawn out of their restless slumber by the haunting memories of the night before.

The cacophony of battle that had echoed through the darkness had faded, leaving behind an eerie, sorrowful stillness that blanketed the coastline. As they gazed out across the expanse of the sea, their hearts sank at the desolation before them. Gone were the proud ships that had once soared through the waves; instead, splintered pieces of wood and tattered remnants of sails littered the water’s surface, mingling with the ghastly sight of fallen soldiers drifting aimlessly—a mournful procession of loss and despair. Their presence was a haunting reminder of a lost struggle; the echoes of betrayal and malicious actions turned what could have been a victory into a tragedy.

The scene was etched into their minds, a harrowing reminder of the brutality of war that they would carry with them for all eternity.

“Let’s find higher ground,” Marcus urged, his voice heavy with resolve. “We need to see if there are any survivors.”

They couldn’t see in the dark last night, but maybe they could now. Even if it was only one soldier, Marcus was determined to find one; he had to at least try. They climbed to a high place near the shore and squinted in the hot sun. But there was no sign of life, just birds of prey that could smell the corpses. The soldiers picked up whatever stones they could find and threw them angrily at the birds, wanting to drive away the cruel creatures that were trying to feast on the remains of their brothers.

Then they heard a moan and walked towards it. A soldier lay on the shore, badly wounded. When they realized who it was, they rushed to his side. He was in bad shape; in fact, all of them had suffered injuries from the fire and the debris that had grazed their bodies. But this soldier needed urgent treatment.

As the two soldiers carefully tended the other one's injuries, Marcus gazed toward the horizon, watching the foamy waves crash against the rocky shore. He scrutinized the rugged coastline, mentally mapping their exact position on the vast expanse of both sea and land.

"What do we do now, sir?" Octavius asked, his brow furrowed with concern as the salty breeze tugged at his tunic.

“We are in enemy territory along the coastline, and we must avoid coming too close to the shore, as their ships could easily spot us. The army camp should be nearby, and I'm certain they will send an inspection team. We cannot dally; we need to keep moving.”

Suddenly, they heard the neighing of horses approaching and instinctively took an alert position. Then, several arrows were fired at them, striking two of the soldiers.

“Sir!” one of the soldiers shielded his general, as Marcus and Octavius were without armor or swords. Octavius rushed to the other wounded soldier but found that both were dead. He quickly grabbed their swords and called out to Marcus as he threw one toward him.

“Acacius!”

Marcus deftly caught the sword and cut through one of the dismounted attackers as he ran toward Octavius. More adversaries, armed with swords, charged at them. One of them shouted, “Leave no survivors!”

There were eight fully equipped opponents. However, they stood little chance against Marcus and Octavius, who were unarmored. The two soon managed to defeat their adversaries. Octavius had just pressed his sword to the throat of the man he believed to be their leader when Marcus intervened.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” Marcus demanded.

Octavius stomped his foot on the man's arm, pressing down on his wound. The man groaned in pain. “The general asked you a question! Speak!” Octavius growled.

“Romans,” the man spat defiantly. “It doesn't matter if you kill me; you've already lost. Soon, you will lose your lavish city too.”

Octavius bent down, grabbed him by the collar, and shook him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Speak!"

When the man resisted, he punched him repeatedly in the face. Marcus preferred to watch coldly.

The man spoke, his lips trembling as blood trickled down the side of his mouth. "I'm saying that our navy, which you underestimate, is preparing to lay siege to your city."

Marcus and Octavius exchanged glances. The man grinned and said, "But I don't think you will live long enough to see it. You won't stand a chance in our lands."

"I think you are mistaken," Marcus said. "You're the one who won't see it. Maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but one day, I, Marcus Justus Acacius, shall exact my retribution, destroy all of your fleets, conquer your city, and annex all of your lands into the greatness of Rome; Carthage will be wiped out of history."

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief, but not due to the threat or the confidence in his voice. Instead, the mention of his name made him realize who he was.

"You... how is it possible that you are still alive?" he exclaimed, reaching for the belt around his waist and swiftly drawing out a knife, intending to plunge it into him.However, Marcus was more agile. He grasped the man's wrist, which was holding the knife, and thrust it into the man's throat with it. The man breathed his last, choking on his own blood.

“Why was he so surprised? I don’t like this, sir,” Octavius said.

Marcus brow furrowed as his gaze pierced the distant trees and hills.

“There are undoubtedly more soldiers lurking in the area. We can’t stay here any longer; we must escape now,” he insisted, urgency driving his words.

“What’s the plan? How do we get back to Rome? It’s impossible without a ship."

“Who said we’re going back without a ship?” Marcus retorted. “Didn’t you hear him? Their fleet is gathering to prepare for a siege on the city. If we can just reach the harbor, there might be a glimmer of hope for us. But first, We need a disguise.” He turned sharply to the soldier beside him.

“Remove your armor and put on the clothes of one of those men,” Marcus ordered. “We must shed every piece of evidence that marks us as Romans, or we’ll never make it out alive.”

As Marcus donned the cloak of one of the dead soldiers, his thoughts were consumed by you. He couldn’t help but worry about what would happen to you and your children if the city fell to the enemy fleet before he could reach you. The troubling possibilities weighed heavily on him; he needed to get to Rome as soon as possible, but he knew the journey would be dangerous and difficult.

As the days dragged on without him, a heavy silence enveloped your heart. Initially, there was a flicker of hope that he would return, but an overwhelming sorrow settled in as the latest news trickled in. Shadows of doubt loomed large in your mind, whispering fears of what if he was truly gone. Yet, in the deepest recesses of your soul, a powerful conviction remained: he was alive, and you could feel it with every fiber of your being.

The agony of not being able to reach him, to offer solace, or to venture forth in search of him was an unbearable weight. Each day passed like an eternity. The sun would stream through your window, casting warm rays that illuminated your bed, yet the light felt cold and distant. Every breath you took without him was a reminder of the hollow space he once filled, each inhalation a sharp pang of longing.

You ached to flee from the Villa, to escape the desolation that surrounded you. Without him, it transformed into a forsaken dungeon, trapped in time—abandoned, ruined, and echoing with memories that only deepened your sorrow.

Every morning, you found yourself making the familiar journey to the bustling harbor of Ostia, the salty breeze carrying whispers of hope as you scanned the horizon for the familiar silhouette of a ship bearing the Legion III flag. Cato and Decima were sharing this ritual with you, but as the days drifted by without a sign of your men, Decima's optimism began to wane. Yet, you clung to hope like a lifeline, for returning to the villa felt like walking into a void, a space only filled by soothing presence of your children, who kept you anchored amidst the uncertainty.

Nights loomed like heavy shadows, each minute stretching into eternity as you sat in your dimly lit room after tucking the children into bed. The silence pressed in on you, amplifying the absence of Marcus. In the stillness, his silhouette seemed to haunt the corners of your mind, merging with fading memories that flickered like candle light. You often found yourself sitting on the cold, hard floor, wrapped in the ache of longing as you imagined where he might be sleeping—if he was sleeping at all. The gnawing worry clawed at your insides; was he injured? Did he need you? The warmth of your bed, which had once promised solace, felt foreign and unwelcoming now. It once a sanctuary, had turned into a cruel reminder of his absence. You chose to forgo its embrace, opting instead for the rough comfort of the lectus, resolute in your determination to wait for his return, refusing to surrender to sleep until he was back in your arms.

That morning, as you were getting ready in your room to head to Ostia, there was a knock at the door. Decima entered with your permission, her face pale and drawn, betraying a deep discomfort.

“What troubles you, dear?”

“My stomach,” she murmured, her hand instinctively resting on her slightly rounded belly. It was true; she was carrying a child, and it was common for her to experience such ailments in this time.

You guided her to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Don’t come with me today. Stay here with the children and rest.”

Desperation flickered in her eyes as she grasped your hand tightly. “Aurelia, can’t you consider not going either? We’ve made that journey to Ostia six days in a row, only to return disheartened, adding to our suffering. I’m so tired; I can’t bear it anymore…” Her voice cracked as tears spilled down her cheeks. You nestled beside her, wrapping your arms around her.

“I understand your pain, but if we give up hope, what do we have left? They are alive; we must summon our strength for them and for our little ones,” you assured her, your voice steady.

“This is the only flicker of hope I have left,” she said, her hand on her belly. “But we have to brace ourselves for the other possibility, you know.”

You rose from the bed, “No, there is no other option.”

“Aurelia—”

“Decima, please. He is alive; I can feel it,” you declared, picking up Marcius and inhaling the sweet scent of his curly hair. “I’m not in denial about this; I can’t explain it, but I just know it.”

She let out a heavy sigh, a sound filled with fatigue and resignation. You leaned down to plant a soft kiss on the tiny head of your daughter, peacefully sleeping on the bed, her dreams untouched by the cruel world outside. Then, with resolve, you draped your palla over your head, securing it around your arm.

“You rest here. I’ll return before nightfall,” you promised.

“Please take care of yourself,” she whispered, a tremor of worry in her voice.

You offered her a weak smile, a flicker of reassurance. “You too.”

As you went down the stairs, Tullia was waiting at the bottom, her eyes all watering. She begged you not to go, her voice wobbly with desperation, but you ignored her, just like you did every day. It was a familiar routine, and it was getting you nowhere. Everyone around you looked sad, and the air felt heavy and thick with sadness. This only made you angry.

“What is this sorrowful expression of yours?” you asked, your voice sharp. “Is someone dead? General, your master is still alive; he is not gone! How quickly have you all accepted defeat? How swiftly have you convinced yourselves of his demise? No, as your Domina, I refuse to allow this despair. There will be no more crying and no more sulking. I forbid it, do you understand?”

They nodded slowly, their heads bowed in compliance. You walked out of the courtyard and into the open air, where the world felt colder and more unforgiving. There, you spotted Cato by the carriage, which stood ready and waiting like a silent sentinel. This daily ritual had become all too familiar. Every morning, he arrived to escort you, and each time, you would ask if there was any news. When he responded with a slow shake of his head, a fresh wave of pain crashed over you, as if the wound had been reopened without mercy.

You found yourself teetering on the edge of endurance, desperately clinging to the fragile thread of hope. All you needed was the slightest indication that he was still alive—a whisper, a flicker of life. That’s why you journeyed to the harbor each day without fail; it was a pilgrimage fueled by the relentless ache in your heart. But as time went on, it felt like the whole universe was working against you. Every moment felt like an eternity, as if the world was determined to break your spirit.

As you stood at the harbor, the familiar salt-laden breeze swept around you, mingling with the weight of your unspoken grief. Each day, this spot had become both a sanctuary and a prison. A heavy sigh escaped your lips, giving way to silent tears that traced paths down your cheeks. From a distance, Cato watched, his heart heavy. Every day, he stood witness to your struggle, feeling the pull of your pain deep within himself. A soldier by trade, he had learned to temper his hopes with grim realism, but his heart ached with the longing to believe that everything would be alright. His thoughts were consumed by the mission entrusted to him by his general—to protect his own family, no matter the cost.

You were oblivious to the arrival of the carriage coming up close to you, its wheels crunching over gravel while the waves crashed rhythmically against the shore. The world around you had lost its vibrancy in his absence; it felt as if a curse hung in the air, draining the life from all that surrounded you.

Suddenly, the echo of footsteps broke through your reverie, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. You turned to find Geta standing beside you, his expression serious as he draped a white, fancy shawl over your shoulders. The gentle weight of the shawl felt comforting amid your turmoil.

He had a point; the wind was biting, but nothing compared to the fiery pain you felt deep down.

“Why did you come here?” you asked, meeting his gaze.

“I should ask you the same thing. Standing on the edge of the harbor day after day—don’t you think it’s a bit reckless?”

“It’s hard to stay at home,” you replied, adjusting his shawl around your shoulders and clutching the fabric tighter as if seeking solace in its warmth.

“Then you should have told me. I would have come with you,” he said.

“Should I really have invite the great emperor to stand here idly with his sister for no reason? You have an empire to rule, and your family needs you,” you murmured.“Family? Hah!” He let out a bitter laugh that echoed against the waves. “You are my family. Marcius and my little niece—are my family.”

“Brother,” you whispered. “You have a wife and a child. You can’t just ignore them. Publius is your son; he needs his father.”

“I don’t ignore him,” he replied firmly, although the weight of his words seemed to hang in the air. “I love him just as much as I love Marcius.”

“And Nerissa? The rumors I hear about you two aren’t good. Are you paying enough attention to your wife?”

“I’m going to divorce her,” he said, his voice chillingly devoid of emotion.

“What did you just say?” you asked, stunned.

“Not right away, but I can’t stay married to her,” he continued, his expression hardening. “She’s become someone I no longer recognize. I can’t stand her being around me.”

“Tell me what happened,” you insisted.

He shook his head and looked into your eyes. There was sadness in his gaze, revealing the many things he wanted to say but couldn’t. His expression made you uneasy, because you recognized that look—the kind a man gives a woman when he feels deeply. It was the kind of look that compelled you to look away immediately.

“Aurelia, I—”

Suddenly, a horn echoed through the air, jolting you from your thoughts. The sound was unmistakable, sending a thrill down your spine. Instinctively, you turned your gaze toward the vast expanse of the sea.

In the distance, silhouettes of battle-weary ships emerged on the horizon, their sails billowing gracefully as they glided closer to the shore. The rhythmic crash of waves against their hulls accompanied their steady approach, creating a spellbinding sense of anticipation.

A surge of joy coursed through your veins, igniting a spark of hope that blossomed within you at the thought of his return.

“Finally,” Geta said, smiling at you, and you smiled back, perhaps for the first time in days. Within an hour, the partially damaged ships approached the shore and anchored. As each soldier stepped ashore, you felt growing excitement. However, your joy soon faded when you realized that the number of soldiers disembarking very less. The soldiers waiting on the other ships were not many either. It was devastating to witness the fleet's severe damage and significant losses firsthand.

A little later, the centurion Varus must have received the news, as he was one of those who arrived at the harbor. He was surprised to recognize you, but he stepped toward you with determination.

“Where is your general?” Geta asked the soldiers. The soldiers appeared tired, wounded, and deeply saddened. They were too grief-stricken to look at either his face or yours.

“It’s just us and the others on the ship, Your Majesty. We are outnumbered by no more than three thousand soldiers, many of whom died in the attack. We believe that the general and Sir Octavius were among them.”

"How could you come back without your general?" You shouted.

"It was a direct order from him, my lady. Either we stay there and perish, or we retreat. We've been through hell." The soldier’s words echoed in your mind, heavy as stone.

"You did the right thing, soldier," Varus said, his tone firm. Yet, you could sense a hint of relief in his voice.

Suddenly, your knees buckled, and you sank to the gravelly ground, feeling the sharp stones bite into your skin.

"Aurelia!" Geta exclaimed anxiously, dropping beside you.

"My lady!"

Geta fiercely pushed Varus' hand away as it reached out, wanting to touch you.

Cato rushed to your side, leaning in with an urgency.

"My lady, let me take you back home," he implored, but the words felt distant, floating away like the lost hopes within you.

You lacked the strength to respond; tears streamed down your cheeks, each drop a testament to the profound hurt that gripped your heart. Crushed under the weight of despair, the last remnants of hope were carried away on the calm winds howling across the shore.

Geta put his arm around you, his presence a quiet anchor amidst the storm raging within you. He brushed his fingers gently against your tear-streaked face, offering solace as he helped you rise.

"You should return to the villa now, Aurelia. Would you like me to accompany you?" he asked softly, concern lacing his voice.

Varus cleared his throat, a sound filled with urgency. "Your Majesty, there’s something we must discuss. You pledged to await the fleet’s return, and now that it has arrived, I trust you will take the necessary steps to select a new general."

You narrowed your eyes at him, fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"Not now, Varus," Geta interjected sharply, gesturing for him to leave, his protectiveness radiating like a shield around you.

“I understand your pain, and I am truly sorry for your loss,” he said, not sounding very sincere. Only made you angrier. “But my thoughts are with the state of our army and the safety of our city—”

“It’s not just you; I’m thinking about it too, so you don’t need to worry. Right now, I must be there for my sister during her moment of grief, and frankly, you’re the last person I want to see.” The sharpness of his words hung in the air, leaving Varus visibly unsettled. He lowered his gaze in anger, then turned and walked away in silence.

“I’m sorry, Aurelia, but Acacius...” Geta paused, drawing in a shaky breath as if unsure how to say it properly. “As difficult as it’s been—and I genuinely know it is—I believe it’s time for me to accept the truth.”

“Please,” you whispered, your voice cracking like brittle glass. “Don’t say anything more; it’s only adding to my pain."

"I know, forgive me."

"I want to go home.” You said faintly.

“Alright, then, let me accompany you. I can't leave you alone like this,” he said.

You nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks, unstoppable and raw.

During several distressing days spent as refugees in the bustling streets of Carthage—the very city they had intended to conquer—Marcus, Octavius and the other soldiers were forging a plan for their perilous return to Rome. Their initial strategy was to infiltrate the merchant ships sailing toward the island of Sicily. However, there was a significant problem: the harbor, alive with the sounds of creaking planks and crashing waves, was dominated by ominous warships—hundreds of them. Clearly, merchant ships could not sail for the time being. In truth, the man they had slain had spoken with grim accuracy—Carthage was preparing to unleash its might upon Rome.

With a pressing time limit, the group knew they had to procure a small dinghy or boat under the cover of darkness to reach Drepanum. Stripped of coins and valuables, they relied on their training as soldiers and the fierce camaraderie that bound them together. That day, they pressed on to the coastal city of Clypea, seeking the promise of a less fortified harbor where the air was thick with salt and desperation.

As dusk enveloped the city like a shroud, they found refuge in a dimly lit tavern, hoping for a place to rest. The scent of roasted meat mingled with the sharp tang of spilled wine as they overheard snippets of anxious conversations from nearby tables. The locals, their faces drawn with worry, whispered tales of the imminent siege preparations by their army. Fear rippled through the air like a storm, as they suspected that Elagabalus might betray their trust. Yet, a flicker of hope remained—many believed that the sinking of Roman ships and the loss of soldiers were signs of weakness. Most importantly, the loss of their great General Acacius could become a significant advantage in their struggle against Rome.

Octavius and the other soldiers clenched their fists upon hearing their conversation, while Marcus was the only one who smiled when his name was mentioned. As they listened, it was hard for them to remain quiet, but they needed to keep a low profile. He knew that if Elagabalus reached Rome with the Carthaginian fleet before they did, Marcus would have little chance to save his city. He had to get home—for his wife, for his family, for his emperor, and for Rome.

At dawn's quietude, they set out on their bold quest to steal a lone boat with a single sail from the peaceful harbor. Though its leisurely pace paled in comparison to that of a sturdy ship, it provided the subtlety they desperately needed. The boat glided across the shimmering waters, and nearly a day later, they finally stepped onto the sun-kissed shores of Sicily.

From that point on, their journey became treacherous. Traveling on foot across the rugged terrain, without the speed of a horse, would stretch their journey into days, perhaps even weeks. They maneuvered through the territory of Syracuse, a Roman ally.

Desperation clawed at them as they decided to find horses. In a hurry and lacking peaceful options, they resorted to force. They ambushed the owner of the horses. Marcus, torn between courage and guilt, promised the man that he would one day repay the debt. However, the man, trapped in despair and fear, yelled and protested loudly, his cries echoing in the still morning air. Ultimately, they had no choice but to silence him, tying him up as they fled into the uncertain horizon.

After journeying with the horses up to the Strait of Messina—just as the Roman navy arrived at the port of Ostia—they had to find a way to cross to the other side of the land. Unable to take the horses with them, they had to leave them behind, which meant a few more days would be required to reach Rome. Capua was a significant stop along the way to their destination. Octavius’ family resided there, would allow them to gather all necessary supplies like food, suitable clothing, and horses.

Upon arriving in Capua, they stepped into a tavern to rest, feeling quite fatigued from their travels. "My family's home isn't far from here. We can get what we need," Octavius said as the tavern owner served them their drinks. "What should we do after then, sir?"

Marcus sipped his wine. "We still have a considerable distance to get to Rome. Additionally, we need to find the nearest army headquarters."

“There’s the Iulia Alpina legion just outside the city,” another soldier said.

“Indeed. We must head to their camp. Commander Quintus knows me; he will be able to assist us,” Marcus said, his resolve strengthening. “From there, we can send word to Geta.”

They nodded in agreement.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden door of the tavern swung open, and a raucous group of men stormed in, their animated chatter filling the dimly lit room. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls as one man leaned in closer to his companions.

“Did you hear the news? They’ve chosen Verus as general to replace General Acacius,” he murmured, a hint of disbelief lingering in his tone.

The second man shook his head, a pained expression crossing his face. “He was a good commander, a man of honor. It’s a tragedy. May the gods welcome him into Elysium’s embrace,” he intoned solemnly, raising a cup in a silent toast.

A skeptical chuckle escaped the first man’s lips. “Verus can’t even hold a candle to him. No one can match his prowess on the battlefield,” he retorted, the edge of resentment sharp in his voice.

Seated in a shadowy corner, Octavius felt a surge of indignation welling within him. He shifted in his chair, ready to spring to his feet when Marcus, placed a hand on his arm, restraining him.

“Sir, what are they saying? How can this be?”

“Calm down, Octavius,” Marcus urged, glancing around cautiously. “They must believe we’re dead.”

“But you’re not dead! We’re not dead! We can’t let this nonsense continue!” Octavius protested, fury igniting his voice. “How could Geta possibly choose Varus?”

Marcus sighed, “It must be the council’s decision. They need a leader; the army can’t function without one,” he explained, his voice subdued yet firm.

“Still, it reeks of injustice,” the soldier said, his disappointment evident as he shook his head. “You are still a general, and this is gravely unfair.”

“Now, Varus has the influence and power to manipulate things in his favor. Geta is in jeopardy now more than ever. We must return to Rome—time is of the essence,” Marcus declared, determined.

Breathing... Could it really hurt just to breathe? But it did hurt you. It felt as if there were countless wounds in your lungs that grew larger with each breath. The pain you experienced was indescribable. You cried so much that you woke up in the morning with the dried remnants of last night's tears on your cheeks. Crying was all you could do; you tried to appear happy to avoid frightening Marcius. Every time he babbles "da-da," a word he used for his father, he did so without grasping the reality of his father's absence. As you watch him, you were feeling the weight of your emotions, struggling to hold back tears while biting your lips so hard that they almost bled.

Everyone around you—Cato, Felix, Decima, Norell, Geta, Lucius, who visited occasionally, your aunt Antonia, even Tullia—was telling you to stop waiting for him to return.

But you were refusing. Somewhere deep down, you knew that he was alive, you could still feel his heart beating. It was a strange sensation, but it was undeniable. How could you possibly ignore that feeling? He would return—maybe it would take months or even years, but he would come back. It might seem ridiculous, but you were certain he will return.

His words reverberated softly in your mind repeatedly. ‘You will live, my love. For our son, for our daughter, and for me.’ Yet, the weight of this promise felt almost unbearable. The ache in your chest was so profound that it seemed to steal the very breath from your lungs. Without his plea echoing in your heart, the agony would consume you entirely. It seemed so easy to surrender to death, but enduring the excruciating burden of this pain felt insurmountable, a dark shadow that loomed over every moment of your existence.

You may have shed many tears for Marcus, but all of Rome shared your grief. The citizens and city authorities of the Empire bestowed many honors upon General Acacius, and it was decided by Geta that appropriate ceremonies should be held to mourn his death. Temples, baths, and shops closed their doors as his loved ones wept inconsolably. In memory of his honorable and victorious life, a mausoleum was to be erected in the harbor of Ostia (this was customary for generals or centurions whose bodies could not be found). In two days, a ceremony was organized to commemorate the soldiers and their general who had died at sea. People, members of the Senate and their wives, and the relatives of the deceased soldiers all came to you to offer their condolences. You were grateful to everyone, but this only intensified your pain and made your loss feel more tangible.

Since you still didn’t believe you had truly lost him, the ceremony was almost unbearable, and you wanted to escape—it was all too much. What finally drove you away was the sight of Varus in his new outfit, who had just been declared General. He was dressed in leather armor featuring a gold-embroidered head of a Medusa on the front, with a red shawl cascading down from his shoulders. He looked just like Marcus, but he was not him. No matter how they referred to him, he wasn’t your general, and he never could be; no one ever could. Seeing someone like him wearing Marcus' familiar outfit left you feeling unsettled. Your heart raced uncontrollably, and the world around you blurred as nausea threatened to take hold. In your moment of distress, Cato and Decima rushed to your side, gently guiding you toward the carriage while you struggled to regain your composure.

Each step toward the waiting carriage was a struggle against the weight of your burden. Just as the world around you began to blur, your legs faltered beneath you, and darkness enveloped you like a thick fog, erasing all traces of light and consciousness.

Aurelia...

That whisper, that voice... As you opened your eyes, you found yourself on the desolate shore of a dark and stormy sea, waves crashing violently against the rocks. The air was thick with the scent of salt and rain, and Marcus' voice echoed all around you, haunting yet comforting, but he was nowhere to be seen. Panic surged within you as you searched the horizon.

Then, you spotted him—Marcus stood resolutely on the opposite shore, his charm as captivating as ever. Your heart raced at the sight of him, yet a deep chasm lay between you.

“Marcus, my love, I knew you weren't gone!” you cried out, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I knew you hadn't left me!" You swiftly wiped them away with the back of your hand, yearning to take in the familiar contours of his face that you longed for. But despite your desperate steps forward, the fierce ocean current repelled you, the waves rising like formidable walls.

The storm swirled around you, the howling wind almost drowning out your plea. “I’ll return to you soon, my princess,” he promised, his voice a melodic whisper that cut through the tempest.

Joy ignited a smile on your lips even as tears continued to flow. But just as swiftly, the tempest intensified, and in a blink, Marcus vanished, along with the light of your happiness.

The distant chirping of birds broke the spell, pulling you back to reality, stark and unforgiving. It was a jarring contrast to the heartache that gripped you. You understood you were lost in a dream, yet you hesitated to open your eyes, clinging to the hope of seeing him again. But like sand slipping through your fingers, the dream faded away, and you returned to a reality heavy with sorrow.

When you opened your eyes, you realized Geta was sitting next to you, looking at you with concern.

“Aurelia? Are you awake?”

You turned your head and glanced around the room; you were in your chamber at the Domus Severiana, another place filled with memories of Marcus. How wonderful.

“Why am I here?” you asked, frowning.

“I was very concerned about your condition. I wanted Lucius to see you,” he replied. He picked up a tray of food from the table and brought it to you. “Please eat something; you need to take care of yourself. You've lost a lot of weight—just look at you.”

“I don't have any appetite, brother,” you confessed, turning your head away.

“Then, as your emperor, I order you to eat this now,” he said, a playful smile creeping across his lips, trying to lighten the somber atmosphere.

He was trying to elicit a smile from you, and you appreciated that. Yet, despite your best efforts, you couldn't manage a smile.

“Thank you, brother, really, but I must go,” you murmured, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor meeting your feet.

He quickly stood, an impetuous glint in his eye, and gently guided your shoulders back down. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“But Marcius and my daughter—”

“You must regain your strength first; otherwise, you’ll be no good to them. If you eat, I’ll let you go.”

“Geta, please... I can’t stay here,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, the weight of your worries pressing down on you.

“Then eat. Do you want me to spoon-feed you? Look, I’ve never done this for anyone before, so appreciate it. You're lucky to have a brother like me,” he said, grinning.

“Well, if you won’t let me leave without eating…” you murmured.

“That's right,” he replied, settling down next to you on the bed, a teasing glimmer in his eyes.

“Now, come on, open your mouth,” he urged. You hesitated but eventually opened your mouth just enough to accept the morsel and began chewing slowly.

With determination, he managed to get you to eat the food on the plate, and a smile of triumph appeared on his face.

“Enough, I'm going to be sick,” you said as he handed you more food.

“Well, at least I saw you eat something,” he replied with a chuckle. “I wish I could see you smile.” He sighed deeply. “You know, I really miss seeing that beautiful smile of yours.”

“Thank you for being there for me, brother. But I really have to go.”

“Come on, Aurelia, stay here one more night, and tomorrow I'll take you myself, I promise.”

“One more night? I stayed here last night?”

“Well, yes. I might have asked Lucius to give you something to help you relax,” he confessed sheepishly.

“You did what? I’ve been here for two days? How could you do that?” Your words spilled out, sharp and tinged with disbelief.

“I did it for you!” he barked back, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “Lucius said you fainted—probably from malnutrition and sadness. You’re going to make yourself sick, and I can’t allow that. So please, just stay here tonight and leave tomorrow. Should I have Marcius and my little niece brought over?”

“No, I’ll go,” you insisted.

Geta grasped your wrist gently but firmly. “Please, Aurelia,” he implored, his eyes filled with a quiet desperation.

It was ironic how Nerissa had used that same word in her plea for you to leave before.

“I know exactly what will make you smile,” Geta declared confidently. “Stay right here; I will return shortly.” With that, he left the room.

You sat back on the bed, and no matter how much you tried to push it away, the memories of Marcus in this room kept flooding your mind. It formed a lump in your throat that was hard to swallow. A little later, Geta returned, managing to make you smile as he promised. He came back carrying your nephew, Publius, in his arms. Instinctively, you smiled widely when you saw his beautiful face.

“See? I told you I’d make you smile. This little man is the only one who can manage that for his aunt,” Geta declared, his eyes twinkling with pride.

You reached out and took Publius in your arms. He was right; he was the only one who could make you smile today.

“Aurelia,” Geta said as you stroked your nephew’s golden hair. “I know it’s hard right now, but you will get through this. You are the strongest woman I know, and believe me, I have known many.”

“I don’t know if that’s a consolation or just an attempt to flatter yourself,” you replied, half-joking.

He shrugged his shoulders, a playful grin forming on his lips. “I can’t change my past, but you are the biggest reason I’ve become the person I am today. You’re incredibly strong, fiercely loyal, and possess a heart of gold. You would do anything for those you love. I consider myself lucky to have you among them.”

“Geta…” you murmured, your heart swelling with gratitude.

“I know, I know—sentimentality is a lot for someone who tends to be full of himself. I failed at being emotional, didn’t I? Just forget it, it’s all—”

Suddenly, you hugged him. He was taken aback; he usually does that kind of thing.

“Thank you, brother. Your support means a lot to me,” you said.

He wrapped his arms around you. “I’ll always be there for you. I won’t let anything happen to you or your children. In his absence, you’ll be under my protection.”

“Your Majesty—”

You stepped back as soon as you heard Nerissa's voice. Her expression was a mix of confusion and anger. “I was looking for Publius...” she mumbled.

“I brought him here,” Geta replied, avoiding her gaze.

“I thought Lady Aurelia had left.” She glanced at you.

“My sister will stay here one more night,” he said, picking up Publius in his arms.

A little later, Lucius appeared at the door. “Your Majesty, my empress, my lady.” He looked at you and them. “I'll come back later if this is the wrong time—”

“Come in, Lucius,” Geta said, gesturing to him. “We were just leaving.” He turned to you. “Rest well, Aurelia.”

You nodded in response.

Geta grasped Nerissa's arm, and you ignored her piercing looks as they left the room together.

Lucius closed the door behind them.

“How are you feeling? Are you feeling better?”

“I'm not sure how I feel anymore,” you replied with a sigh.

"You looked as pale as a marble statue yesterday; you really should take better care of yourself."

"I see you're still in Rome," you murmured, deliberately dismissing the subtle suggestion in his words.

He placed the delicate cup of soothing herbal tea he had brought for you on the table, steam rising like Marcus’ memories swirling around the room.

"How can I possibly leave when you're feeling this way?" he asked.

"I'll be fine, Lucius," you insisted, your voice more confident than you felt.

He exhaled deeply. “I won't say anything to upset you, but I don't like seeing you this way. You should think of yourself, for your children's sake at least.”

You picked up the cup and glared at him. “I know, but it’s hard.”

Lucius knew you well, and you appreciated that he didn’t try to convince you of anything or comfort you as the others did.

“Just try,” he said before leaving the room.

At the break of dawn, the first light filtered through the mist, illuminating the sturdy tents of the Iulia Alpina legionary camp. Marcus and Octavius approached the entrance, the sound of their sandals crunching on gravel echoing in the quiet morning air. The soldier who had traveled with them had to stay at Octavius' family home because his wounds were worsening.

Two soldiers stepped forward as they neared them, their expressions a mixture of caution and suspicion.

“Halt! Identify yourselves,” one soldier demanded. Seeing them unarmed, he crossed his arms over his chest with confidence, blocking their path.

Octavius’s frustration bubbled beneath the surface, igniting a fire in his chest. How could mere soldiers question Marcus, a man who had once commanded the respect and admiration of the entire army? With clenched fists, he felt a surge of indignation at the thought of his general being reduced to an unknown visitor.

But where Octavius seethed, Marcus remained the embodiment of calm dignity. He reached for his finger, slipping off his intricately designed ring and presenting it to one of the soldiers. The metal glinted in the morning sun, a symbol of authority.

“Deliver this to Commander Quintus. He will recognize who I am,” Marcus instructed, his voice steady and assured.

The soldier hesitated, his brow furrowing as he examined the ring. “A Commander's ring? Where did you acquire this?”

“Did you steal it?” a second soldier asked.

Octavius erupted in anger, his voice like thunder. “How dare you say that!”

“Who the hell are you to raise your voice?” the first soldier shot back.

What is going on here?” another came behind them and asked, eyes widening in recognition as they landed on Marcus.

“Sir, these two wanted to see you—” the soldier began, but Commander Quintus silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“Return to your posts now!” he barked, authority ringing in his voice. “Come with me.” He gestured for Marcus and Octavius to follow him, the soldiers nodding in surprise as they complied.

Marcus reclaimed his ring, the weight of it in his hand a reminder of his past glories. He turned to the soldier, locking eyes with him. “What is your name, soldier?” he inquired, his tone now softer, almost conspiratorial.

The soldier frowned, taken aback by the unexpected question. “B-Balbus. Why do you ask?”

Placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, Marcus replied, “I’ll find you one day, Balbus.”

The young soldier quirked an eyebrow, puzzled by the familiarity, and a chill ran down his spine as he felt a strange shiver at the weight of Marcus’s words.

Commander Quintus stepped into his tent and waited for the others to arrive.

“Acacius! General!” he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and relief. “How did you-? We heard you were dead. Just the other day, there was a ceremony…”

“Calm yourself, Quintus. I’ll explain everything,”

Quintus exhaled a deep breath. “Please, take a seat, General. Forgive my soldiers; they wouldn’t have acted this way if they had known who you were. I was too flabbergasted to reveal your identity in front of them—”

“Actually, you acted wisely. I need your help with something. We must return to Rome immediately. Our journey has stretched on for far too long.”

“Of course, but how did you survive that brutal attack? I’ve heard the stories—tens of thousands lost…” Quintus’s voice trailed off. "I can't even imagine..."

“I suppose the gods took pity on us,” Marcus muttered.

“They surely did. It’s a miracle you made it out alive,” Quintus said, shaking his head in awe.

"A miracle indeed," Octavius murmured.

“You mentioned a ceremony,” Marcus said, his brown eyes narrowing as he leaned forward.

“Yes, I attended it. Actually, I only arrived last night. I believe you heard about whom they appointed as general,” he said hesitantly. Marcus nodded in reply. “Varus looked rather smug in his new outfit.”

“I’m certain he did,” Marcus replied coldly. “Did you see anyone else?” He sighed before your name escaped his lips. “Lady Aurelia?”

“Yes, she was there,” he said, avoiding eye contact.

Marcus’s brow knitted in concern. “Did something happen to her?”

“She appeared distraught,” Quintus confessed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She thinks her husband is dead, the poor lady.”

A heavy silence enveloped them, tightening around Marcus’s chest like a vise. “I must return at once,” he hissed.

Octavius placed a reassuring hand on Marcus’s back. “We will return, brother. Together.”

Quintus nodded, determination etched on his features. “I’ll provide you with my finest horses. You arrive in Rome in a day and a half,” he promised.

Marcus nodded.

“Sir,” a soldier called to Quintus from outside the tent.

“Come in,” Quintus replied.

The soldier saluted and handed him a piece of paper. “A message just arrived, sir, from Rome.”

“Alright, you can leave now,” Quintus replied, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. The soldier complied, saluting once more before exiting. Quintus turned to Marcus, his expression darkening. “It’s from General Varus.”

“Open it,” Marcus urged.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Quintus unfolded the paper. As his eyes scanned the lines, shock painted his features, and a breathless murmur escaped his lips. “How can this be?”

“What does it say?” Marcus asked, leaning closer.

“Commander Quintus,” Quintus read aloud, voice steady but tinged with disbelief, “in the name of the people of Rome, I summon your legions to Rome to assist me and my soldiers in arresting Emperor Geta.”

Marcus's brow furrowed as he examined the message and the seal beneath, then handed it over to Octavius.

“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Quintus exclaimed, his voice rising with fury.

“He’s trying to place Elagabalus on the throne,” Marcus snarled.

“Is he betraying Emperor Geta now?” Octavius asked.

“That seems to have been his intention all along,” Marcus replied, clenching his fists tightly at his sides, frustration radiating from him like heatwaves. “How could I not have seen it?”

“He must have been the one who tipped off the enemy about our fleet's course,” Octavius added, his voice low yet charged with realization. “They knew exactly where we’d be. The target was you, General—the ship we were on.”

“You're right, Octavius. If I had recognized this earlier…” Marcus said, his voice trailing off as regret washed over him.

“Who could have guessed he would turn out to be such a despicable traitor?”

"We should have seen it, Octavius. If we had, none of this chaos would have unfolded," he replied with a stern look. "Perhaps our brothers would not now be in the depths of the damned sea," he added, the burden of grief heavy on his heart.

Octavius gently placed a hand on his shoulder, sharing in his sorrow and understanding his pain.“We have to leave immediately.” Marcus said then. “We cannot allow Varus to continue his malevolent schemes. If he places Elagabalus on the throne, it will spell disaster for all of Rome.”

“You're right. We have no time to lose.”

“I’ll prepare the horses, but Acacius, Varus has summoned me to the city. If I refuse, he may brand me a traitor,” Quintus said.

“You will go. You must fulfill your duty as a soldier. However, the fact that I am still alive must remain our secret.”

He nodded and left the tent.

“What are we going to do? You won’t be recognized as a general when you reach Rome,” Octavius asked.

“I will confront him and reclaim my rightful title, but before that, we must find a way to stop him. If they manage to capture Geta and place Elagabalus on the throne, we'll lose our chance for good, and with the sands of time slipping away, we cannot afford any delays."

“We have until their fleet reaches Ostia.”

“If Elagabalus is on that fleet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it Octavius. If Varus didn’t wait for the fleet, he may have already allowed Elagabalus to sneak into the city,” he explained, dread lacing his words.

“Gods forbid! if we don’t make it in time—”

Marcus exhaled a heavy breath. “Then we will have truly lost…"

When you woke up in the morning, you heard footsteps just outside your chamber. Then, Geta entered your room with a big smile on his face, followed by the slaves carrying trays full of food. You looked at them with puzzled, sleepy eyes.

“What is happening?” you asked.

“I arranged for breakfast to be served in your room,” he replied, gesturing for the slaves to place the trays on the table.

“I can see that. May I ask why?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on now. I just wanted us to have breakfast together. Get up and join me,” he said as he sat down at the table.

He was likely trying to make you feel better, but he was putting in a bit too much effort.

“Geta, I want to return home now,” you whined.

“Alright, alright, but I kindly ask that you join me for just one breakfast before we leave together,” he suggested earnestly.

You huffed. “Very well.”

After breakfast, Geta indicated his intention to proceed downstairs to arrange for the carriage, assuring that he would await your presence in the courtyard. Leaving the room was difficult, but going to the villa felt even harder. Marcus seemed to be everywhere; his memories were etched in every corner, and his beautiful face appeared wherever you looked. Today you felt more broken than yesterday; the pain remained, only now it felt bigger.

You couldn’t deny that Geta's support helped to ease the pain a bit. However, the problem was that every time you were alone after a moment of relief, the reality of Marcus’s absence struck you like a slap in the face. Each time it felt more violent, more jarring, and more hurtful. You didn’t know how to cope with the pain, and what was worse, you were sure it would linger with you for the rest of your life. All you could do was wait for him to return, just as he promised you in your dream. His return was your only medicine; the only thing that could heal you was feeling his presence again.

Upon your arrival in the courtyard, Geta greeted you with a warm smile. “Are you prepared to depart, sister?” he inquired, with genuine warmth in his tone.

You nodded in affirmation. “Yes, I am ready.”

“I’ve already missed Marcius and our little princess. It will do me good to see them.”

“Oh, that’s right, I never thanked you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For giving your bracelets to Marcius.”

He smiled. “I wanted to give my nephew a gift worthy of a Roman prince.”

“A very suitable gift indeed,” you responded, returning his smile, feeling a brief lift in your spirits.

Just as you were about to exit, Darius entered the courtyard purposefully, his demeanor suggesting urgency. “Your Majesty! I was on my way to locate you.” His expression conveyed a sense of importance, and he was clearly catching his breath.

“What is the matter, Commander? Has something occurred?” he asked.

His brow knitted in concern as he looked around warily.

“Centurio- General Varus…” he gasped, struggling to catch his breath.

“What about him?”

“He's on his way here with his troops, Your Majesty,” he replied, a shadow of dread crossing his face.

“I beg your pardon?”

“With the intent to arrest you,” he continued, his tone grave.

“What?” you squeaked, feeling a chill run down your spine.

Geta stood frozen for a moment, shock rendering him speechless, his eyes darting with alarm.

“My men have managed to block them at the entrance to Palatine Hill, but their numbers are overwhelming. We won't be held off for long. We need to get you out of here—now.”

“How dare Varus commit this treachery?” he demanded, anger boiling within.

“We don’t know his motives, Your Highness. My men will escort you to the safe place we discussed earlier.” He unsheathed his sword with a schwing sound. “You must go with them immediately. And you too, my lady, follow His Majesty closely.”

“I need to go home!” you protested, panic threading through your voice.

“Aurelia, didn’t you hear? Varus has committed treason not only against me but against the entire imperial family."

"We suspect he may be colluding with Elagabalus,” Darius added.

A cold shiver coursed through you, your heart pounding against your ribcage. “Marcius... My son... I have to reach him now!”

“We will, but first we must escape this place!” Geta urged.

“This way, Your Majesty,” one of the guards pointed to a shadowy inner courtyard, the air thick with tension and urgency.

“Bring the Empress and my son!” Geta commanded.

“I’ll fetch them; you go ahead, please!” the other guard shouted urgently before he left your side.

Geta grabbed your wrist and dragged you into the shadowy corridors, following the clattering footsteps of the guards. Your heart was pounding like a drum, the sound of fear and panic filling your head as you thought of your son.

“Don’t worry,” Geta murmured, urgency lacing his words. “There’s a secret path winding from the tombs beneath Palatine Hill. It’s an escape route that Darius, Acacius, and I devised for emergencies like this.”

Your heart fluttered at the sound of his name. Whenever you were scared in situations like this, the confidence that he would come to your rescue always kept you calm. But now, he was absent, and you were left in the cruel grip of uncertainty. A chilling question gnawed at your mind: could these truly be the last moments of your life? You thought that death would be far less terrifying if it weren’t for your children. The thought of them being left fatherless and orphaned weighed heavily on you, and despair threatened to consume you. If they lost their mother too, what fate awaited them in this unforgiving world? You strained to push those dark thoughts aside, desperately trying to focus on the present moment.

The guards led you to the tombs, and one of them went to check if the exit was safe. You paused, waiting for his return to your side; you gazed at the statue of your father, and you silently prayed to be reunited with Marcus and to return safely to your children.

“Don’t pray to him; he won’t hear you,” Geta said.

You looked at him in shock.

“He never heard me. He wouldn’t have heard me even when he was still alive.”

"How do you mean?"

“Caracalla and I were merely heirs to him. He didn’t see us as sons; perhaps we weren’t worthy in his eyes. I can’t say. But he had one true child, and that was you. He loved only you,” he declared, his voice growing thick with a storm of emotions.

“Geta, what are you—”

“I held my silence before because, at first, it was simply jealousy. But the more I learned about you, the clearer it became why he cherished you so deeply. Caracalla’s anger only grew in tandem.” He put his hand on Caracalla’s bust, on his shoulder. "The reason they called us evil twins was that’s exactly what we were. Our father played a significant role in that; he was a soldier, a commander who viewed us as his soldiers. He often beat Caracalla, and I would shield him to protect him, but sometimes, I was too scared and just watched. He even believed that Caracalla's height was his fault. He never loved us, Aurelia, and I know he didn’t love my mother either. He must have preferred you and your mother," he said, laughing bitterly. "I don’t hold it against you—please don’t misunderstand. But if he had treated us well and given us a father’s love, maybe Caracalla wouldn’t have become so angry or fooled to believe someone like Macrinus. I think he loved Rome more than he loved us, even more than he loved you, since he sent you, his most precious, away."

Tears began to flow down your cheeks, as you were already on the verge of crying. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. Even though he's my brother, he deserved to die. It was either Rome or him. But Acacius... Now you see why we consistently sent Acacius to war—to push him into taking action. We even threw him into the Colosseum several times to see if he was worthy of commanding the army. Just for fun.” He confessed. “We despised my father so much that we wanted to destroy everything he had built for Rome. Caracalla, in particular, was intent on this destruction, even if it meant starving the people to death. However, I now realize how wrong we were. Acacius, that honorable man, had to endure our actions for years. We never considered his situation; to us, he was merely an expendable servant." He exhaled. “Everything changed when you came into our lives. First, you healed Acacius, and then you healed me, both body and soul. You entered both of our hearts. But what truly matters is how you healed Rome, how you became a precious part of her. You are the heart of Rome.” He gently caressed your cheek, his hand trembling with a mix of regret and affection. “Yet now, your heart aches because of me. Forgive me for failing to protect him. I should have had Elagabalus eliminated rather than merely banished. This burden of guilt is all mine."

"Blaming yourself won’t alter the outcome. But Acacius is not dead; I hold that belief deep in my soul."

"I sincerely hope you're right, sister.”

A few hurried footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridor, breaking the tense silence. Nerissa appeared, carrying Publius in her arms.

"What’s the situation?" Geta asked the guards.

“Your Majesty, the troops have encircled Domus Severiana,” one guard replied, his voice steady despite the chaos outside. “We must leave immediately.” He glanced anxiously at a fellow guard. “And where is Drusus?”

“He went to scout the exit, but he hasn’t returned yet, sir,” came the worried response.

“Regardless, we have to move. Your Majesty, stay close.”

“Lead the way, then,” Geta said, pulling Nerissa to one side and you to the other. Together, you pressed forward, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls.

You had never ventured this far from the tombs and had no idea there was an escape route. The darkness wrapped around you like a shroud, and the presence of an escape route was a startling revelation. Marcus must have carefully crafted a plan to safeguard everyone before his departure. As you recalled that he had experienced sleepless nights months ago, you understood the reasons behind his anxiety. But what did it accomplish for you, other than keeping you apart?

You continued onward, trying to suppress your anger. You needed to get out of here and reach the villa as soon as possible.

After walking down an endless corridor, you reach a wooden door that opens to the outside. One of the guards drew his sword, approached the door, and slowly opened it. Just as he stepped outside, he was attacked. During the ensuing clash, other guard was ambushed by a man wearing a cloak, similar to the first attacker. Geta quickly pulled you and Nerissa back. The air was thick with tension as the chilling sound of steel clashing echoed through the corridor. Moments later, both guards lay lifeless on the floor, their life force drained, leaving only a gnawing panic coursing through your veins as the attackers advanced, their swords aimed at you.

In a shocking turn, Nerissa released her grip on Geta's hand and stepped forward, her movement very calm, which left you astonished.

“Nerissa, what are you doing?” Geta shouted.

Yet, she remained silent, standing defiantly beside the attackers, her gaze locked onto Geta with intensity.

“The time for revenge has come, Your Majesty, or should I say, my husband?”

Geta narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean? Do you know these men?”

“I overheard everything when you planned this escape route. They were waiting for you here.” She smiled cruelly.

"Why the hell-"

“You thought I would never find out, didn’t you?” She snapped.

“What are you talking about? I don't-”

“I know how you had my mother and father killed!”

Geta appeared taken aback but maintained his composure. “You knew? All this time, why didn’t you confront me?”

“I found out. Elagabalus revealed everything to me.”

“That bastard doesn’t know shit! Did you truly believe his words?”

“Why did you do it?” Nerissa barked, her voice filled with fury. “Why?” Another bark followed. Publius began to cry, and she handed him to the man beside her. “Get him to the place we discussed,” she ordered, and he nodded in response.

“Where the hell are you taking my son?” Geta shouted, but the other man pointed his sword at him, halting his advance. In a panic, you grabbed Geta's shawl.

“All those years... I stood by your side through it all and obeyed your every command. How could you betray me like this?”

“Nerissa, it was Caracalla who was behind it,” you said. “Geta—”

Geta grabbed your hand and pulled you behind him. “Don’t, Aurelia. This is between us.”

Nerissa laughed. “Between us? I thought there was nothing between us. All this time, I was in love with you. I believed in you, I trusted you, and I hoped that maybe you would love me for the sake of our son. But what did you do? You fell in love with your sister!" She barked as she looked at you. "Do you recognize these people? They came from Athens just to take their revenge, which Elagabalus promised us.”

The men pushed back their hoods, revealing their faces. These were the Greeks from the wedding. Nerissa asked for his sword, and he gave it to her. Then she walked toward Geta, who didn't even flinch, seemed frustrated, realizing he had been fooled all this time—just like you. Both of you are petrified.

"My mother and father came to Rome just to speak to you and your brother. Why did you have them killed? Did you enjoy hiding the truth from me? Did you laugh behind my back while I was foolishly serving you without knowing anything? You took pleasure in having me after you killed them, didn’t you? That’s who you are!"

“No, that's not true!” Geta shouted.

“Caracalla wanted to kill them in front of you, to make you watch. I prevented him. Yes, I let them be killed, and I don’t deny that. But I kept it from you because I knew how devastated you would be. I was afraid you’d do something reckless and get yourself killed. I cared for you; I wanted you by my side. I was trying to protect you from Caracalla.”

"Yet you pushed me into his bed."

Geta squeezed his eyes shut, a look of regret on his face. "I had to, and I'll never forgive myself for it, but he would have killed you for sure if I hadn't. You know what he was like - his anger was unlike mine; it blinded him."

"So you did it to protect me? Then why didn't you love me? Was it so hard?" Nerissa's eyes began to fill with tears.

"I wanted to, I really tried,” Geta murmured. "But I cared for you, Nerissa." His tone was sincere. “I still do.”

A few footsteps approached from behind you, causing the men to tense up in that direction.

"My lady, we must leave at once. The ship is ready and waiting to sail," someone urged Nerissa.

Nerissa shot another deadly glance at Geta. "I don’t believe you. Whatever you say or do, it won't change what you've done."

Geta nodded and spread his arms wide. "Go ahead then. Do what you must."

"No!" you shouted, grabbing his arm. "Geta, what are you doing?"

"Let her do it, Aurelia. I deserve it."

You looked at Nerissa. "Please, Nerissa, stop! Revenge won't bring your mother and father back! I know you love Geta. Do you really want your son to grow up without a father? What will you tell him one day when he asks about his father?"

“He will know what his father has done and will hate him. I will make sure of it!”

Geta held your hand and pulled you toward the exit. "You can kill me, but let Aurelia go. She has nothing to do with this, and you know that. She was always kind to you."

Nerissa narrowed her eyes."You value her life over your own. Even in your final moments, you think of her. You love her more than you ever loved me."

"Stop it and just do what you're going to do!" Geta barked.

The sounds were getting closer. Nerissa tried to thrust the sword, Geta, but her hands trembled when she looked him in the eye. One of the men seized the sword from her. “My lady, we’re out of time. Let me handle this.”

Nerissa handed him the sword. “Kill her first,” she said, glancing at you. “He’ll understand what I’m going through as he watches his most precious one die.”

You gasped as he brought the sword to your neck. You closed your eyes tightly, and Geta shouted, “NO!”

You whispered softly to yourself with your eyes closed, "Marcus, I love you.”

In the blink of an eye, a black shadow appeared before your eyelids, and you heard the sharp sound of a sword cutting through fabric and flesh. A choking sound, followed by a growl, and a few strands of hair grazed your cheek. When you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was Geta's blonde hair. Herd, and as you reached out to grab him, the weight and shock of the moment caused your knees to buckle, and you collapsed. The crown on Geta's head fell to the floor as he toppled backward onto you, the sound echoing through the stone corridor. But there was a more terrible sound. Geta had been hit hard by the sword in the stomach and blood was oozing from the cut. He was making choking noises, and his breathing was becoming increasingly difficult.

"No, no, no, no, no," You mumbled as you pressed both of your hands against his abdomen, where blood was gushing out.

“Aurelia!"

It was Lucius' voice, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him. Geta's eyelids seemed to grow heavier by the second as he struggled to breathe.

Lucius hurled a knife at one of the men as he charged them. The blade struck the man in the chest, causing him to stagger backwards and fall. With remarkable speed and agility, Lucius deftly slashed at the other attacker with his sword. While you sobbed violently as Nerissa ran away in panic, seemingly unconcerned.

“Lucius! Please help me!” you cried, pressing your hands against Geta’s injury, but the blood continued to flow violently.

When Lucius noticed the blood pooling on the floor and realized it was also flowing down Geta's back, he scowled. The sword cut through him, and he realized it meant only one thing. "Aurelia..."

‘What should we do? Maybe if we stitch him up,’ you gasped.

Blood poured from Geta's mouth as he coughed, and more started to seep from the corner of his lips.

Lucius gently touched your cheek. “Aurelia...” As you looked into his blue eyes, you understood what he was implying, but you were unwilling to accept it.

“No, no, no! We can save him. Geta! Look at me!” You held his face in both hands, tears streaming down your cheeks.

His blood-stained lips curled into a smile. Coughing, "It's blissful..." "...to die..." he muttered, again coughing up blood, "...in your arms," rolling his eyes as his eyelids flitted open and shut.

"You're not going to die!“Look at me! No! No!” Your desperate cries reverberated against the cold, unforgiving stone walls, creating a haunting echo that felt as if it were mocking your pleas.

Lucius grabbed your shoulders and shook you. “Aurelia, we have to go now! The soldiers have entered the courtyard; they’ll be here soon! We don’t have time!”

You were engulfed in a haze of shock, your hands trembling as you shook Geta violently. “Geta!”

Yet, he remained unresponsive, his eyes closed in an unsettling stillness.

“He's gone, Aurelia,” Lucius’s voice cut through the silence, reverberating painfully in your ears. “He's dead,” he repeated his words a cruel echo of your own fears. “Let me save you.” With a sense of urgency, he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you as if trying to carry you away from the heartbreaking scene.

“No, Lucius! He can't die! Please! GETA!” Desperation clawed at your throat as you fought against him, your sobs raw and choked. You reached out, stretching your hands toward Geta, as if the mere act of touching him could breathe life back into his still form. The atmosphere around you shifted as the metallic clang of soldiers' armour and the hurried tread of feet echoed down the corridor.

“Find them now!” a commanding voice boomed.

Lucius grasped your blood-soaked wrist in a desperate grip. "We must go now!"

Your body felt weak, a puppet torn from its strings, each sob dragging you further into the despair and aching throbbing of your loss.

"Hurry, Aurelia! We might have a chance if we take this path!" His voice urged you forward. But your legs felt weak, and you feared you would fall at any moment. It was all too overwhelming—too much pain and loss. Lucius stopped and looked at you, his expression earnest. "Aurelia, we have to get out of here now before the soldiers find us. Do you hear me? They were talking about arresting you. Think of your children. Think of Marcius. We need to get him somewhere safe."

Suddenly, all your senses returned. "Marcius, my son," you murmured. He was right—Elagabalus would want to eliminate the entire imperial family before claiming the throne. "Let's go, Lucius!" you urged, meeting his gaze.

He nodded. "Come, this way."

A little further along the banks of the Tiber, you emerged onto the plain, where Felix met you, flanked by two horses. "My lady, we must leave at once. Cato is at the villa; I sent him ahead to finalize the preparations."

You nodded in response. Lucius mounted one of the horses and extended his hand to you. "Come on."

Felix jumped onto the other horse as you settled behind him. But the soldiers had spotted you. "Hey! Stop right there!"

Fortunately, they didn’t have horses. You wrapped your arms tightly around Lucius as he and Felix kicked their horses forward. The soldiers yelled after you and ran, but they couldn’t keep up. You knew they would head to the villa, and your only hope was to reach it before they did. You turned your head for one last look at the silhouette of Palatine Hill disappearing behind you, your mind was clouded with thoughts of Geta. It felt surreal and almost unbearable to accept that he was gone, leaving behind an echo of memories that tugged at your heart.

to be continued...

I apologise to those who love Geta, but now we are approaching the end of the story and I will end this series even though I don't want to, you know everything has an end and I want to do it in the best way while ending it, I will probably end it in the 30th chapter, I hope you are still enjoying it, love you all:)

@orcasoul @pedroslut4eva @immyowndefender @lailathepedritofan @screechingchildfury @shinymusicpanda @somedayheaven @ivoryandflame @negrita2345 @music-lover09 @javiismyhsbnd @idontcareihavenoidea @jisungandpedrolover @mmkkzz @ro-nahime-things @indiegirlunited @kluvspedro @movievillainess721 @berriesarepunk @bonadeamo @heramj @blushingwueen @smoochispoof @littlemisspascal @kirashess @okaaaadereeee

@this--is--music @mmkkzz @ro-nahime-things @indiegirlunited @kluvspedro @movievillainess721 @berriesarepunk @bonadeamo @heramj @blushingwueen @smoochispoof @littlemisspascal @kirashess @melsunshine @meetmeatyourworst @footballfangirl94 @daejangandimja @ariesandwolves @hooomansstuff @vlonerv @chewie-bars @dendulinka6 @lucienofthelakes

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your likes, comments and reblogs are soo important to me, and thank you for all support, love you all❤️

if anyone wants me to tag them please comment or msg me :)

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sh4nksslvt · 2 months ago

Text

Sea Kings, Smart Mouths, and Stolen Hearts

A wandering scholar with the rare ability to read the Poneglyphs finds themselves entangled in the chaotic world of the Whitebeard Pirates.

PART 3 OF READER WHO CAN READ PONEGLYPH

whitebeard pirates x gn!reader ౨ৎ💗 ONE SHOT

main characters: Ace, Thatch, Izou, Marco

tags: fluff, sfw, harem, soft

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only so expect this ffs cringe and oc

word count: 1.2k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Moby Dick was a floating temple of chaos.

You’d been on board for exactly three hours when you witnessed a fistfight over the last bottle of rum, a man juggling knives while drunk off his ass, and someone trying to arm-wrestle a literal sea king. And for some reason, every single one of them tried to rope you into it.

You were sitting on a barrel near the railing, minding your own damn business, when a piece of driftwood floated by — a small, smooth thing, carved with ancient script.

Your fingers twitched.

The words called to you. Whispered in a tongue long dead to the world. It was harmless, but old. You reached out, brushing your fingers over it, murmuring softly.

“Hey, what’re you doin’?”

You didn’t even flinch when the voice broke your concentration. You finished reading the last word before looking up. A man stood there, grin too big for his face, hair looks like bread, scar on side of his eye. He's sun-browned and scarred, and a bottle swung lazily in his hand.

“Talking to wood,” you said dryly.

He barked out a laugh. “Name’s Thatch. I like you already.”

“Is it because I didn’t scream?”

“Nope. It’s ‘cause you look like you’re about to either murder someone or seduce ‘em. That’s a rare vibe to pull off.”

You quirked a brow but said nothing. Thatch clapped you on the back anyway, nearly sending you overboard.

“C’mon,” he said. “You can sulk better at the fire.”

Dinner on the Moby Dick was less of a meal and more of a battle royale.

Men shouted, meat sizzled over open flames, and ale flowed like water. You sat at the edge of it, quietly nursing a cup of something that tasted like regret and old socks.

A man with fiery freckles and a grin to match dropped into the seat beside you. He immediately reached for your drink.

You grabbed his wrist without looking.

“Mine.”

He blinked, then grinned wider. “Name’s Ace. You’re the new one, huh?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “I’m the old one. I’ve just been invisible this whole time.”

Ace snorted. “Smartass.”

Thatch appeared behind him, slinging an arm around both your shoulders. “Told you, Ace — they’re my favorite.”

You were already plotting his demise.

It didn’t take long for the others to circle.

A man with long, flowing hair and sharp eyes introduced himself as Izou. He looked you up and down like you were a puzzle with missing pieces.

“You’re strange,” he said, not unkindly.

“Thanks.”

“I like strange.”

You raised your cup in salute.

And then there was Marco.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you from across the fire, golden eyes flickering like dying embers. When he finally approached, you were standing alone on the deck, staring up at a sky so thick with stars it made your teeth ache.

“You’re not like them,” Marco said quietly.

“Observant.”

He smirked. “What’s your deal?”

You hesitated. But the truth felt easier here, in the dark.

“I read things,” you said. “Things I shouldn’t be able to. Ancient things.”

“Poneglyphs.”

You stiffened, and Marco’s smirk turned sharp.

“Relax,” he murmured. “Your secret’s safe. Pops wouldn’t give a damn. Most of us wouldn’t either.”

You eyed him. “And you?”

“I find it interesting.”

You snorted. “You would.”

His laugh was soft. “Smartmouth.”

The next day, some poor idiots tried to attack the Moby Dick.

They came in hot — four ships bristling with cannons and swords, foaming at the mouth about bounties and revenge. You barely blinked.

The crew went feral.

Ace leapt into the fray with fire on his heels, Thatch laughing as he tossed knives with deadly precision. Izou shot a man out of mid-air, unfazed as blood misted the deck.

One fool broke through the chaos and made a beeline for you.

“Oi, scholar!” he sneered. “You’re worth a fortune!”

You sighed.

Raising a hand, you spoke a word older than kingdoms, and the man’s sword crumbled to dust in his grip.

He paled.

You spoke again, and the air around him shimmered — his boots turned to brittle stone, cracking beneath him. The third word sent him flying backward with a force that shattered the nearest mast.

The crew went dead silent.

Ace let out a long, low whistle. “Yo.”

“Did you see that?” Thatch yelped. “That was badass.”

Izou eyed you like you’d just turned into his favorite thing.

Marco, perched on the highest beam, grinned.

“Not helpless, then.”

You rolled your eyes. “Hardly.”

After that, you became a sort of legend.

The scholar who spoke to stones and made enemies vanish with a word. The one even sea kings gave a wide berth.

And the harem started forming before you could stop it.

Thatch started bringing you food, drinks, and increasingly ridiculous trinkets (“This is a seashell shaped like a butt, you’re welcome.”).

Ace followed you everywhere. Literally everywhere. You once found him outside the bathroom.

“What,” you demanded.

He shrugged. “Felt like it.”

"tsk."

Izou taught you how to braid hair. His hands were surprisingly gentle for a man who could blow your head off without blinking.

And Marco? He made it worse.

Sitting beside you at night, speaking of things he shouldn’t remember. Old places, lost names. His hand brushing yours when no one was looking.

You should’ve run.

You didn’t.

And the comedy never stopped.

Like the time Ace tried to fight a giant crab to impress you and got pinched in a place no man should ever get pinched.

Or when Thatch bet you couldn’t outdrink him and passed out three shots in, leaving you to doodle a mustache on his face.

Or when Izou declared you’d look better in one of his kimonos and actually wrestled you into one. (It did look good. You never admitted it.)

Even Marco wasn’t safe. You caught him napping once, a seagull perched on his head. You didn’t tell him. You let it happen.

Then came the Poneglyph.

Buried in the heart of a ruined island, half-sunken beneath the sea. You felt it before you saw it — an ache in your chest, a pulse beneath your skin.

The crew followed you in.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Thatch muttered.

“Maybe ‘cause it’s cursed,” Ace said, poking a skull.

“Both of you shut up,” Izou hissed.

You found the slab in the heart of the ruin. Black stone, ancient words glowing faintly. It sang to you.

And like an idiot, you answered.

You spoke the words.

Power thrummed through the ground, the air, your bones. The sea roared. The sky cracked.

The world shifted.

When you opened your eyes, you were on your knees. Marco was crouched beside you, worry in his gaze.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah.”

“What did it say?”

You hesitated. “War’s coming.”

His jaw tightened.

But then Ace clapped you on the back, nearly toppling you. “If anyone’s startin’ a war with you on our side, they’re screwed.”

Thatch grinned. “Dibs on being your right-hand man.”

Izou smirked. “I call left.”

Marco chuckled. “I’ll be wherever you need me.”

You sighed. “You’re all idiots.”

But you didn’t feel alone anymore.

That night, on the deck beneath a sky bleeding silver, Marco sat beside you.

“You belong here, y’know,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer.

“Not just as some scholar. As one of us.”

You stared at the sea. “Even if I’m dangerous?”

He shrugged. “So are we.”

He touched your hand, fingers curling around yours.

“Besides,” Marco added, a grin tugging at his lips, “you still owe me a drink.”

You smiled.

For the first time in years, it felt easy.

“Deal.”

#one piece x y/n #one piece x reader #one piece #whitebeard pirates #whitebeard crew #portgas d ace #portgas ace x reader #izou one piece #marco the phoenix #thatch one piece #oc #fluff #soft #idk man

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little-miss-fandom-freak · 6 months ago

Text

Bad Chemistry

Summary: A new inmate has arrived and joins Task Force M on their mission; everythung about this new member confuses, yet intruiges Dr Phosphorus and is determined to find out why

A/N: Idk if I want to make this an X Reader or a Canon X OC so I'm leaving it up to interpretation for now :)

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Flag watched as his new "team" hit the floor from an electric shock, directly admitted from a device Waller held. "Meet Task Force M; 'M' for Monster. Also known as the Creature Commandos. " Waller said as she tossed Flag the device. She walked out of the room with him trailing behind. "There is one more member who will be arriving shortly."

"Arriving? Why aren't they in Belle Reve with the others?" He asked as he pocketed the device.

"Let's just say The Batman and I had a long chat before I had to agreed to keep her in Arkham." Waller and Flag stopped in front of a glass wall; behind the wall was a pair of doors that slid open. An unconscious woman on a dolly was pushed into the room. Flag watched as a doctor with surgical gloves came out from behind her with a large needle in hand. He peeled back her eye light and injected its contents into her eye. Flag cringed as the woman - now conscious - screamed in pain.

Waller spoke over the cries. "Meet Android 10; or as the Joker called her, The Ten of Spades."

"Wait, The Joker?"

Waller nodded. "Joker wanted a group of Androids who would do his dirty work. 20 Androids were created, only 5 made the cut for his "Royal Flush Gang". Each one was built with a different set of abilities. Ten was given super strength, intelligence, and aviation."

"A real triple threat, huh?"

"Indeed." Replied Waller. "It's taken me years to convince Batman to take her to Belle Reve, so use her wisely Flag."

The two watched in silence as Ten regained her composure. As she stood up, her piercing red eyes glared into Flag's. Her eye was red and tear-filled from the shot, and there was nothing but hate and anger behind them.

"Good afternoon, Ten. My name is Amanda Waller. Welcome to Belle Reve."

Ten charged at the glass, slamming her fist against it. "I demand to speak with Batman. I demand to know why I'm here."

"That's a lot of demanding for someone trapped in a cage. Unfortunately for you, he's not here. And you won't get to speak to him again unless you comply." Ten's teeth grinded as she kept her glare on Waller; when she realized the woman wouldn't back down, she sighed.

"What do you want from me?"

"That is on a need to know basis. And all you need to know for now is that you'll be taking orders from General Rick Flag Sr." Waller said, gesturing to the man beside her.

Ten crossed her arms as she examined Flag. Her face read that she was unimpressed when she scoffed. "Emphasis on the 'senior' bit." She mumbled.

Flag let out a sharp chuckle. "Real spit fire, isn't she?"

"Ten, for this mission, I will need you to play nice with your new teammates. We don't want a repeat of the last time." Flag watched as Ten's cocky, confident demeanor shift for a split second. Her eyes flickered down before meeting Waller's once more.

"So, when do I meet me new team?"

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

When the rest of the team emerged from their cells and out to the landing pad, a few of them were puzzled by the woman standing beside Waller and Flag.

Waller greeted the group as they stood in frontof her. "Task Force M, I'd like for you all to meet your new teammate, Android 10."

Ten took notice of their unimpressed looks, but in her opinion, they weren't anything special either.

"Do we really need another member?" The Bride complained. "There's already enough brainless fools on this team.

"I can assure you Bride, this one is anything but brainless." Waller spoke as she walked away from the team. "General Flag will give you the run down before you enter Pokolistan."

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

Phosphorus didn't know what to think of the new girl.

Taking subtle glances at the robotic woman beside him (one of the few times he was thankful for not having actual eyeballs), he tried to get a read on her. She kept to herself; avoiding the banter the rest of the team shared and ignored any and all questions or comments directed at her. He tried taking glances at her exposed skin, trying to find the creases in her joints or the screws that would keep her together, but he found nothing.

Phosphorus had let himself get too wrapped up in his thoughts; his head turning half of an inch too much, caused Ten to take notice. She turned her head, making deep eye contact with the skeleton beside her.

"Got something to say, Skelator?" Her voice rumbled in his ears. He was taken back by her sudden question, but like always he doesn't stay shocked for long.

"I was just thinking." He said, keeping her in suspense.

"About?"

He paused for a moment, deciding if he really wanted to known. "What's so special about you that they kept you out of Belle Reve?"

Ten looked away, bringing her attention back to her boots. "That's none of your concern." She said quietly.

"I think it is." He said, leaning back. "We are a team after all; how am I supposed to trust you if I don't know you?"

"The only thing you need to know, is that I won't kill you simply because there's a shock chip in my brain that I'd rather not trigger."

Before Phosphorus could continue to pry, Flag addressed the group.

"Now look team, I know you all aren't exactly enthusiastic about this mission," he started. The Bride and Ten rolled their eyes in unison." But-"

"General I think you've read us wrong." Phosphorus cut in. "We're delighted to be here and delighted to serve our country."

"Are you smiling?" The bride asked quizzically. Phosphorus hummed with acknowledgment. "Sarcastically?" "Yeah." He said with a shrug. Ten scoffed at his childish behavior, but Phosphorus took it as a chuckle, which boosted his ego a tad.

Ten blocked out the rest of the conversations, just wanting this mission to end already so she can get back to her lovely cell back in Arkham. A place that would drive most people insane, acrually brought her a sense of peace. The isolation from people was just what sher needed, especially since her life has been nothing but chaos sinc ethe day she woke up. But her cell wasn't the only thing about Arkham she missed...

The shake of the plane landing ripped Ten from her thoughts. The team was lined up, waiting for the ramp to lower. When ut did, it revealed rows and rows of silver-clad soldiers with their general in front.The general lead them all to the military vans that would take them to the castle. Ten regeted mentally complaining about sitting close to Phosphorus and The Bride; the van was 10x smaller and more compact than the plane had been, with everyone pressed against each other in some way. The close contact with Phosphorus only got worse when Weasel began to piss on the seats.

"Is he pissing?! Oh my God he's pissing!" Phosphorus cried as he tried to scoot as far away from Weasel as possible.

"Ugh! Get off of me, Glow Stick!" Ten grumbled as she tried to push Phosphorus off of her. She could feel The Bride tense behind her as he pressed the three of them together more as he cried. "Oh dear God, it's on my leg! Did no one think to take him out for a walk after a long trip?" He asked the group, his head facing twords Bride. "You better not be looking at me." She gritted.

Phosperpus turned his "gaze" to Ten. His sarcastic words died on his tongue when he realized how close their faces were. 'Were her eyes always that color?' 'Her hair has a nice shine to it, is it real?' 'Is that lotion I smell? Do they just give out scented lotion in Arkham?' While his mind was whirling with questions, Ten grew irritated by his emotionless stare.

"What? You think it's my job to care for that thing?" She spat, snapping him out of his daze. "I'm not a dog trainer."

Before he could think of a witty comeback that would save him from this situation, the van stopped. Phosphorus straightened himself as they filed out one by one. 'What the hell was that?'

Upon entering, the first thing everyone noticed was the... "incestuous-looking" royal family portraits. Phosphorus snickered at each one, Ten couldn't help herself but smirk in disbelief.

"You can really tell they're a close family." Phosphorus joked to no one in particular; but Ten was the only one who heard it, trying hard to suppress a chuckle. Her quiet sounds drew him in. Her began to observe her as by they waited for the Princess to arrive.

This android - this "woman" was a total mystery to him, an enigma of sorts. Belle Reve held the worst criminals in the world, being held there for Waller's twisted Task Forces; team that are expendable, where no one would care if you lived or died. No one outside of Belle Reve was ever added to a Task Force (at least to his knowledge); so why was she here? What can she do? What are her strengths? Her weaknesses? Her limits? Can she feel emotions like a human? Being the man of science he was, Phosphorus was determined to find the answers to his questions.

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

Ten watched in disgust as the people around her tore apart their meals like cavemen. She didn't know about the conditions in Belle Reve, but she had too much dignity to engage in the "monster" idea that people held for her. Next to her, Phosphorus was devouring the steak in his hands.

Ten rolled her eyes as she picked at her meal. The final straw was when a piece had ripped off and flew at her, hitting her cheek. She was disgusted. "You know they gave you a fork, right?"

Phosphorus stopped his movements to look at her. Gulping down the food in his mouth he chuckled. "Sorry princess, am I too messy for you?"

Ten groaned in disgust.

"Don't try and sit there like you don't want to tear that chicken of yours to the bone." He said, gesturing to her untouched meal. "I've spent a short time in Arkham, highly doubt they've improved their meal plan. Go on, enjoy yourself! Who gives a shit anymore?"

She scoffed. "Just because I've lived off of prison food doesn't mean I need to act like some barbaric monster."

"Hate to break it to ya sweetheart, but we're all monsters here, even you. You can try and hide behind that synthetic skin and fake hair, but your not human. Your just as much of a monster as me."

A fork was slammed into his plate, splitting the steak and cracking the glass plate beneath. The room went silent at the shake of the table, their attention drawing to the end of the table. Ten leaned in close, his green heat reflecting off of her skin.

"I'm nothing like you. You are nothing more than a murderer and a freak who knows nothing more than bloodlust. Don't ever act like you know shit about me because I can assure you, you will never know anything about me."

She shoved herself off of the table and stormed out of the silent room. Flag cleared his throat, trying to break the alward silence. "Uh, sorry about that, Ilana."

"Will she be okay? I can send someone-"

Flag raused his hand, polierly silencing the princess. "She'll be fine. I think she just needs space from a certain someone." Flag turned to glare at Phosphorus, who wasn't paying attention at all.

His gaze was still on the door Ten had exited from when The Bride began to speak. "The hell did you say?"

"Nothin'. She's just being dramatic." He said with a shrug. Turning back to his food, he couldn't help but be even more curious than before.

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

That night, Phosphorus slowly snuck out from behind the door of his room. When the door silently shut, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He jumped with fear; turning around, he slammed his enflammed fist into the face of the person behind him. It took him a second to realize his fist had been caught; behind him stood Ten, casually holding his fist with her bare hands. He jumped back, concerned that the hall wpuld now smell like melting flesh.

"What the hell!? I could've killed you!" He quietly exclaimed.

Ten scoffed as she dropped his fist and crossed her arms. "Yeah, okay." She replied sarcastically.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his "nose". "Look, I don't have time for this. So whatever you have to say just say it so I can go."

"Go where? We're not supposed to leave the grounds. Hell, we're not even supposed to leave our rooms without permission."

"I'm not leaving the grounds I'm-" He stopped himself from sharing too much of his plan. "Just get on with your business!"

Ten sighed, her gaze going from him to her feet. "Sorry about my freak out. Shits been tough since leaving Arkham, it's just stress."

Phosphorus didn't know what to say. Apologizing wasn't a thing he's been accustomed to, with himself or from other people. He just... stood there. Giving her a dumbfounded look. "Are you serious?"

Ten raised her brown. "Excuse me?"

"You don't apologize!" He said, his arms flinging outward. "We are literally war criminals, who the fuck apologizes for possibly hurting someone's feelings?!"

"Look man I could give two shits about your feelings!" Her voice began to rise. "I was just trying to be a mature adult and try to make up with my teamate-"

"Temporary teamate." He corrected.

Ten scoffed. "Ugh! You are so immature!"

As Ten and Phosphorus argued, their voices began to get louder until they weren't even whispering anymore. Phosphorus stopped mid sentence when he saw a light around the corner.

"Shit!" He grabbed Ten's wrist and tugged her into his room and threw her against the wall.

"What the hell are yo-" He slammed his hand over her mouth, though it was a little harder to do since she was taller than him by a good few inches. When she tried to fight him off, Phosphorus pointed at the light shining against the door. That shut her up quickly. The two of them stayed frozen against each other, trying to keep their breathing down as they waited for the light to pass. After a few moments, the two sighed with relief as the guard left. They leaned against the wall, regaining their composure. Ten chewed the inside of her lip as she turned to Phosphorus.

"Let me help you with... well, whatever it is you're planning on doing." She offered.

He raised as non-existent eyebrow. "You wanna help? Why?"

She shrugged. "Can't sleep. I'm bored. And I guess if you won't accept a verbal apology, maybe my actions can speak louder."

Phosphorus chuckled in disbelief as he stood straight. "Alright. Deal."

Phosphorus and Ten crossed the hall to the room Flag resided in. Picking the lock to his room, Phosperpus quietly cracked it open.

"Keep watch out here, make sure no one comes by." Ten nodded as she readied herself.

Phosperus snuck into the room and softly knelt in front of Flag's dresser. He carefully moved things around, searching for the device that activated their chips. When he found it, he had a silent victory before he heard footsteps behind him. Turning his head, he was face-to-crotch with Flag.

"Uh.... hey-" Flag slammed his foot against Phosperpus, sending him back into the wall. Ten heard the thud and went running for the room. When she slammed open the door, she watched as Flag chased after Phosperpus in a room lit with flames.

"What the hell Doc?!" She yelled over the flames.

Flag stopped when he heard her voice. "Ten?! The fuc-" Flag stopped when he was forced to dodge Phosphorus' flaming fist charging at him. He threw Phosperpus to the wall and attempted to punch his face, but was quickly met his the intense flames of the doctor's skull.

"Hey Arkham?! You were supposed to keep watch!" Phosphorus yelled as he dodged several of Flag's swings.

"You told me to keep watch outside, asshoel!" Ten yelled even louder as she danced around the flames. Fly out if Flag's hand, the device caught Ten's eye, but when she went to grab it Phosphorus slammed his fist down to the ground. Flames surrounded the three if them. With one step, Phosphorus froze as he heard a creak beneath them.

Ten groaned with annoyance. "You idiot- AAAHH" The floor caved in and by they went tumbling down. The three of them landed in the kitchen below them. Without any thought, the two men went right back to fighting, the device bouncing back and forth between the two of them. Exhausted from the impact, Ten simply sighed before she made her way to the stove where a bottle of wine stood. She leaned against the wall, drinking it as she watched the men fight.

Flag eventually gained the upper hand, kicking Phosperpus across the floor so he could grab the device. His thumb hovered the red button as Phosperpus tried to attack him once more. Ten's attention was redirected, remembered that she too will be shocked.

"Phosperpus, you idiot!" Flag exclaimed. "You think Waller would give me the only remote? You'd be hopping around like a Mexican jumping bean for days if you escaped. Or, if i told her about all this! I'm not here to torture you- any of you." He said, looking at Ten. "We're supposed to be on the same damn team." Phosphorus looked down in shame. It was stupid to even try but he had to. The feeling of being set free just to be tied down again was taunting him, making him go insane.

Ten sighed, tossing the bottle aside she made her way over to the men. Grabbing Phosperpus by the shoulders and hauling him up, she stopped for a moment and made eye contact with Flag; the two had a silent understanding before she helped Phosperpus limp to the nearest bathroom.

At one point he came to his senses and shoved himself off of her, limping the rest of the way to the bathroom. He set himself down on the toilet seat and held his head in his hands. Cautiously, Ten kneeled infront of him and began to run a scan.

"The hell are you doing?" He asked, feeling uncomfortable under her stare.

"Scanning for any other injuries. I'm going to have fix your-" Ten watched as Phosphorus grabbed the back of his leg and cracked it back into place. She stared at it, a wave of confusion, concern, and pure disgusting rushed over her features all at once.

"Oh.... didn't know you could do... that..."

Phosphorus chuckled at her choked up reaction. "No injuries, babes. Just a bruised ego..."

Ten shrugged. "You gave it a shot. It's not entirely your fault, Waller is just freaky when it comes to being prepared. Guess she was right about doing it though..."

"Yeah..." He trailed off, losing himself in his thoughts.

The two sat in the bathroom in complete silence. Ten leaned her back against thw wall as she picked at the grout. Phosphorus watched her, like he had been, but this time he was actually able to see her.

He didn't mind what he saw, finding a strange sense of peace when watching her mindlessly pick at the floor. Maybe he cpuld get used to this...

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There is no better feeling than finally being able to write the fanfic you've been thinking about for days. It's not the best, but it's been a long time since I've written anything, so I'm pretty rusty. I realized in the middle of writing the the character I "kinda" came up with is basically just Android 18 from DBZ lmao. Thanks for reading!!!

EDIT: There will be multiple parts!

#creature commandos x reader #dr phosphorus x reader #dc comics #dc comics x reader #fanfic #doctor phosphorus x reader

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