#tidal range

[catenary-chad]

I think I’ve posted it before but here’s a good, nuanced long-form discussion on hydrogen as a power source and its potential, limits, and how other more important uses for it complicate things. The really basic summary is it has some use in light-duty services but trains are so convenient to electrify vs other things that it’s a low-priority use for it (see the chart halfway through for a tierlist)

It’s why I think Hydra would be great as a VERY redeemable antagonist since “bionic duckweed” derailing electrification in the UK is an issue but there’s also a ton of other higher priority uses for hydrogen so “retraining” him would be super easy.

[aisphotostuff]

4x4 on the Swale Estuary @ Oare Marshes Kent by Adam Swaine Via Flickr: Just happened to notice the the Range Rover on the causeway dropping of people to the awaiting dingy taking people to a yacht in the Swale ..tide out!!

[missadangel]

⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

I. Sol Invictus

next chapter series masterlist

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

....Chapter Theme.....

**Rome, 205 AD***

"Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!" 

"Saviour of Rome!" 

"Hail to the new general of Rome!" 

"Hail Acacius!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet, fate has thwarted him once more. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He felt nothing.

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

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

“Should I take that as a yes?”

“With all my heart, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was too late.

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

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

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

A blink of an eye.

Darkness.

Another blink.

And suddenly, he felt again.

How could this happen? What did it mean? 

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

Maximus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your prayer was answered, child.”

That voice—it was unlike anything he had encountered.

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

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

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

Another blink of an eye.

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

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

Then another blink.

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

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

He was miraculously, completely healed.

It felt like…

Rebirth.

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

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

How had his prayer been answered then?

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

Perhaps this was a realm of torment.

Just then, something occurred that cemented his apprehension.

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

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

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

Surely, this must be a punishment.

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

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

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

***Italy, Rome, 2025***

Earlier that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You flipped to another channel.

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

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

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

Your first stop? The hospital. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cruel bitch.

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

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

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

Love, Destiny, Fate.

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

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

To your annoyance, they insisted. 

“Let’s just do it for fun, please!” 

“Yeah, come on! Just this once!” 

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

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

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

“I hope so,” you muttered.

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

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

“Seriously, trust me,” she insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Woooo!"

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

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

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

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

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

"I sure hope not," you grunted.

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

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

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

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

Okay, that was enough.

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

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

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

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

A man from your past, but a new love?

What the hell?

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

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

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

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

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

“Eclipse?” 

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

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

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

They jumped to their feet, looking nervous and frightened.

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

Disappointed, they exchanged glances.

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

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

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

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

“Whoa.”

What was that odd feeling?

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

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

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

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

Another what? Life? Time?

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

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

“No, no, no, no, no!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now you’d ripped one of them.

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

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

But it wasn’t entirely your fault.

Why had they sent the wrong trailer?

Oh right. Wrong trailer.

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

Yeah, that was a reasonable thought.

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

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

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

You were so fucked.

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widened in shock. 

“What the fuck?"

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

"Who the fuck are you?” 

Wait a minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s probably fake,” you muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard as he shot you an angry glance. 

“There he is!” 

“Let her go now!” 

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

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

“Put down your sword now,” Leo commanded. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That lunatic.

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

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

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

Marcus was taken aback but nodded eagerly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No way!” you exclaimed, worried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait.”

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

“That parchment—let me see it.”

He noticed it?

“Why?” you asked, wary.

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

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

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

“Yeah, so what?” you replied defensively.

“You’re the one who called me.”

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

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

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

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

You erupted in laughter.

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

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

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

But nothing happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t a dream or a nightmare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, technically.” 

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

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

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

“It wasn’t my intention,” he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, cara mia, see you later.”

“See you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you have to get to work too?” 

“Nope, I’m off today.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What makes you think that?”

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

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

Your jaw dropped the first time you saw him smile. 

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

What on earth?

Was it really time to think that?

“Anyway, I’m late for school. Bye.” 

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

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

“What did you say? For what?”

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

“A pugio grazed it.”

“A what?” you exclaimed.

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

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

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

Could he truly be from another time?

Did time travel actually exist?

If so, why had you never encountered it before?

And why was it happening to you?

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

Come to your senses girl. 

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

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

“What’s this?”

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

“Acacius...” he murmured.

“Excuse me?”

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

Your jaw dropped.

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

How could he pull that off?

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

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

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

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

“You can’t be serious.”

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

“Why not read it yourself?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does ‘cops’ mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if they drop the charges?”

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

“Okay, thanks.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My bulla—why did they take it?”

"Bulla?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you return tomorrow?” 

“Yes, don’t worry.”

He nodded. "I trust you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anytime.”

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

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

“A prayer?” you echoed.

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

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

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

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

No, that seemed impossible.

But what if it was?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What on earth was happening?

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

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

“In the same spot,” you echoed quietly.

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

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

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

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

How was this even possible? 

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

But how?

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

Was Marcus correct?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that right?” 

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

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

He turned to you, intrigued. 

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

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

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

“Here?”

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

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

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

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

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

How could he be that handsome?

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

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

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

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

He shook his head. “It is.”

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

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

Yes, they shifted. They fucking moved!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let go!”

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

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

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

And then, in the blink of an eye—

A strange wind giving you goosebumps.

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

But why?

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

Where had it gone? 

Marcus watched your frantic search, his brow furrowed. 

“We have returned to my time.”

Was he smiling???

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

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

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

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

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

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

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️

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[dior-luxury]

This is just comes to my mind but can you write how the students of all the dorm (if you don't mind♡) reacted when they saw f!yuu being bullied & teased at the same time by other students in their dorm

Love you btw💝🌷

Bullied & Teased

Pt.2

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . drama - she/her .

- [𝐜𝐡.] heartslabyul guys ! - [𝐩:𝐬] mentions of bulling ofc

Note: I'm going to make this into individual parts because tumblr has an image limit on posts <(＿　＿)> . . . Also, this is written in the boys pov!! Also very sorry for the late response on your request, and this work also mentions the reader as "his girlfriend" !

Riddle Rosehearts

The crisp autumn air felt heavy as Riddle walked across the garden, heading toward the dormitory’s courtyard. His steps were precise, as always, but something in the air felt off. As he approached the scene, his eyes narrowed when he saw a few of his dormmates sneering at his girlfriend, making cruel remarks about her appearance. His blood ran cold.

Without a word, Riddle’s expression hardened into a tight, angry frown. The world around him seemed to blur, all his focus fixed on the injustice before him.

“Enough,” he called out sharply, his voice laced with authority.

The bullies froze, the tension palpable as Riddle’s eyes glinted with the sharpness of a leader who had no tolerance for disrespect. “No one will ever treat my girlfriend like that again,” he said, his tone low and cold. He stepped forward, forcing the students to take a step back. “If I hear one more word from any of you, I’ll make sure you're punished according to the dorm rules. Consider yourselves warned.”

His gaze shifted back to his girlfriend, his anger momentarily softening as he moved closer to her. “Are you alright?” His voice was softer now, his hand gently reaching out to support her. Riddle’s protective side was in full force, the rigid rules of his heart quickly morphing into something far more gentle when it came to her.

Ace Trappola

Ace was casually walking through the halls, his usual cocky grin plastered on his face, when he heard the unmistakable sound of hushed voices and laughter. His curiosity piqued, Ace peeked around the corner, only to see a few students from his dorm taunting his girlfriend. They were whispering nasty things, no doubt making her feel small. His grin instantly vanished, replaced by a look of sharp annoyance.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ace’s voice rang out loudly, drawing the attention of both the bullies and his girlfriend.

The students turned, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. Ace’s usual playfulness was gone; in its place was a fierce glare, one that could make even the bravest flinch.

“Don't even think about messing with her, alright?” Ace spat, his stance defensive. He took a few steps forward, his hands in his pockets but his body language radiating that unmistakable protectiveness. “If you’ve got a problem with her, you’ve got a problem with me.”

The bullies stammered, not expecting such an outburst from the normally carefree Ace. Without waiting for them to reply, he turned back to his girlfriend, his grin returning, but this time it was full of reassurance.

“Are you okay, babe? Don’t listen to them. They’re idiots,” Ace said, offering a hand to her. “I’ll make sure they leave you alone from now on. Count on it.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce’s heart raced as he walked into the common room, only to freeze when he saw a few members of his dorm cornering his girlfriend. They were clearly mocking her, their laughter cruel and biting. A surge of protectiveness hit him like a tidal wave.

“Hey! What’s going on here?” Deuce’s voice came out louder than he intended, startling everyone in the room.

The students looked at him, trying to stammer out an explanation, but Deuce’s eyes burned with determination. “If you think it’s okay to make her feel like that, you’re gonna have to answer to me.”

Deuce’s fists clenched, his body tense with anger. He wasn’t one for confrontation, but seeing his girlfriend in distress was a line he wouldn’t cross.

“This stops now. If I catch any of you bothering her again, you’ll regret it,” Deuce said, his voice firm. The students hesitated before nervously backing off.

Turning to his girlfriend, Deuce rushed to her side, his expression softening immediately. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that. Are you alright? Don’t worry, they won’t bother you again. I’ll make sure of it.” His usual timidity was replaced by a fierce loyalty, and he wouldn’t hesitate to do anything to protect her.

Cater Diamond

Cater’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and as he pulled it out to check the notification, he caught sight of the scene unfolding before him. His girlfriend, standing alone, surrounded by a few of his fellow dorm members who were laughing at her. His usual playful smile faltered as his eyes narrowed.

“Oh, no, no, no. Not happening,” Cater muttered under his breath, slipping his phone back into his pocket and strolling over with his trademark confident swagger.

“Alright, you guys are seriously overstepping here,” Cater said, a fake smile plastered on his face, but his eyes betrayed the annoyance simmering beneath the surface. He stood between the bullies and his girlfriend, hands on his hips.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, voice calm but edged with a subtle threat. “I’ve got a lot of followers online, and if I wanted, I could make you famous for all the wrong reasons. So how about you all back off before I get real creative?”

The bullies hesitated, not knowing what to make of his sudden shift in tone. Cater leaned closer, his smile growing. “Just letting you know, I’m not joking. She’s with me, and I’ll make sure no one gives her a hard time. Got it?”

After they scurried away, Cater turned back to his girlfriend, his usual charm slipping back into place. “Hey, don’t worry about them. They’re not worth your time.” He grinned, offering her a wink. “You know I’ve got your back, right?”

Trey Clover

Trey had been quietly observing from the distance, his eyes catching sight of a group of students picking on his girlfriend. His calm demeanor faltered for a split second, and a wave of anger washed over him. He took a slow, measured breath, collecting himself before approaching the situation.

“Alright, what’s going on here?” Trey’s voice was steady, his tone not threatening but carrying an authority that immediately commanded attention.

The bullies, realizing they were in the wrong, stammered, trying to make excuses. Trey didn’t let them finish.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” Trey said, his voice colder now. “If any of you think it’s acceptable to treat someone like that, you’re mistaken. Apologize, and then leave.”

There was no doubt in Trey’s mind that he was going to make sure they knew their place. His usual playful demeanor was gone; all that was left was a serious, commanding presence.

The students, visibly shaken, muttered apologies and quickly dispersed. Trey turned to his girlfriend, his expression softening immediately. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. Are you alright?”

He gently took her hand, squeezing it comfortingly. “I won’t let anyone make you feel like that again. I promise.”

[4linos]

crash and burn.

ot8 x ninth member male reader

synopsis: you thought silence made you strong. but when you collapse mid-song, your members show you what real strength looks like, being cared for.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fainting, malnutrition, burnout.

wc: 2150

The crowd roared like a tidal wave, deafening and unrelenting, but it sounded muffled in your ears.

You stood just offstage, the thick velvet curtain brushing against your shoulder as you waited for the cue. Your heart was hammering, not from nerves, but from sheer exertion. Your limbs felt leaden, your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and a faint, persistent buzz echoed in your head. You tilted slightly to one side, catching yourself before you stumbled.

It had been like this for days now. Maybe longer.

You'd chalked it up to the usual: exhaustion, long practices, late-night recordings. It wasn’t like this was new. Every idol lived like this, surviving on little sleep and even less food, constantly chasing perfection under the blinding spotlight. You weren’t special. So, when your stomach grumbled during practice, you told yourself you'd eat later. When your knees buckled slightly in the hallway, you grabbed the wall and laughed it off. And when your vision swam during warmups this morning, you blamed it on the heat and kept going.

Because if you stopped now, just for a break, just to rest, what if they thought you couldn’t handle it?

What if you proved them right?

“Y/N,” Chan’s voice came from your left, firm but kind. “You good?”

You blinked and nodded quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah. Just pumped.”

He held your gaze for a second longer than usual. Like he could see through the cracks. But then the opening VCR ended, and the stage lights flared to life.

And then you were running out into the crowd, smiling wide, waving, getting into position.

You weren’t good. Not even close.

-

The first song was a blur. Your body moved on muscle memory alone. The choreo was aggressive, as always, but tonight it felt like you were dragging your limbs through sludge. Every jump sent a spike of dizziness through your skull, every turn left you gasping for air.

By the second song, sweat poured down your face like rain. It stung your eyes. Your hair clung to your forehead. You bit the inside of your cheek to focus, to stay sharp, but your mind was getting foggy. Like someone was slowly turning the volume down on the world.

You glanced sideways during the bridge and caught Jisung watching you out of the corner of his eye, brows pinched. You forced a smile.

He didn’t smile back.

By the third song, your head was pounding so hard you thought your skull might crack open. The lights above seemed brighter than usual, searing into your eyes. Your ears rang. Your breath came short and fast. Your body was crying for fuel it hadn’t received in too long.

But it didn’t matter.

Because this was your part.

The music dipped into silence as the instrumental faded. The stage dimmed around you, leaving just the spotlight, blinding and white hot, on your figure.

You stepped forward, mic in hand, heart thudding wildly against your ribs.

You opened your mouth.

And nothing came out.

Your throat closed up. The words, lyrics you’d practiced a hundred times, bled over just… vanished. Your mind was blank. A second passed. Then two.

In the crowd, fans stopped waving their lightsticks. Silence rippled like static through the audience. It wasn’t long, but it was long enough, enough for Chan to glance back at you, eyes sharp with concern. Enough for Seungmin to pause mid-step. Enough for Felix to frown.

You stumbled.

Just barely.

But it was enough.

Because the moment you tried to speak again, the world tilted sideways and then everything went black.

You didn’t remember hitting the floor.

Didn’t remember the chaos, the crowd screaming, the music cutting off abruptly, the mics hissing as members rushed to you.

You didn’t remember the way Chan dropped to his knees, calling your name. The way Changbin held your head carefully to the side, checking your pulse with trembling fingers. Or how Jeongin was frozen in place, eyes wide and terrified.

All you knew was darkness.

Silence.

Weightlessness.

-

When you woke, the first thing you felt was cold, an air-conditioned chill brushing across your sweat-soaked skin.

The second was pain. A dull, heavy ache behind your eyes, like someone had cracked your skull open and poured concrete inside.

And then..

Voices.

Muffled at first. Then slowly sharpening.

“—you need to get him fluids immediately. He’s severely dehydrated.”

“Blood sugar’s way too low. Probably hasn’t eaten in. How long has it been?”

“Y/N. Come on, come back to us.”

Your lashes fluttered. You squinted against the harsh white lights overhead. Your vision was blurred, but slowly, faces began to take shape.

Chan hovered above you, his eyes rimmed red, his hands curled tightly around your wrist.

Felix sat just behind him, one hand pressed against his lips, the other curled around your ankle like it grounded him. His face was pale.

Hyunjin crouched nearby, his hands shaking slightly as he ran them over his pants. You could tell he’d been crying, even if he tried to hide it.

The rest of the members were there too, gathered in a semi-circle around the cot you’d been laid on backstage, with your manager and two medics standing nearby. Everyone looked like they’d aged ten years in twenty minutes.

“…Y/N?” Chan whispered again. “You with us?”

You nodded, barely. Your head felt too heavy to lift.

“I—I’m sorry,” you croaked. “I don’t know what happened…”

“You fainted,” Jeongin said, voice cracking. “On stage. In front of everyone.”

“It was like you shut off,” Seungmin added, not unkindly, but with a shake in his voice he couldn’t hide. “One second you were singing, the next, you just…”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, throat tight. “I just… I thought I could push through.”

“You shouldn’t have had to,” Changbin snapped, more emotional than you’d ever seen him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You swallowed hard. The room felt smaller now, heavier.

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” you admitted. “I kept saying I’d eat later but then I’d fall asleep after practice, and I’d forget. And then it just… kept happening.”

Chan ran a hand over his face. “God, Y/N…”

“I thought I was just being weak,” you continued, voice raw. “I didn’t want you guys to worry. You’re already under so much pressure, I—”

“Stop,” Hyunjin said suddenly, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“You’re one of us,” Felix added, scooting closer. “That means we carry the weight together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want to slow anyone down.”

Chan let out a long, shaky breath and sat back on his heels. “Y/N. We’d rather miss a hundred stages than lose you.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” Minho said from where he stood, arms crossed but face stricken. “You could’ve seriously hurt yourself.”

You turned your head slightly, feeling tears sting your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

There was a long pause.

Then Chan reached out and gripped your hand. “We’re not mad. Just scared. You don’t have to apologize for collapsing when your body couldn’t take it anymore. You just… need to let us help you before it gets to that point.”

“I will,” you promised, voice barely audible. “I swear.”

Felix offered a small, broken smile. “Good. Because we’re not letting you out of our sight now.”

-

You were taken to the hospital shortly after, just to be safe. The diagnosis was no surprise: dehydration, low blood sugar, over-exhaustion. A perfect storm of neglect.

The schedule was adjusted. Your next few events were cancelled, and the company released a statement citing “health precautions.” But behind the scenes, it wasn’t just protocol, it was care.

You weren’t alone for a second.

Changbin started keeping snacks in your bag. Jeongin set phone reminders for your meals. Hyunjin volunteered to split his vitamins with you. Minho started packing bento boxes after late-night practice “just in case.”

But it was Chan who hit the hardest.

It was late.

Past midnight, maybe closer to 2 a.m., when you wandered into the building alone.

The others had gone home hours ago, forced into rest by your manager’s insistence and the very real reminder that everyone was a little too close to the edge lately. But you couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Your body was still too wired, your head too full.

You thought being alone in the practice room might help. Just a few minutes of quiet.

But when you pushed open the door, you weren’t alone.

Chan was sitting on the floor, back against the mirror, hoodie pulled halfway over his face like it might shield him from the weight of the world. The dim overhead lights cast a long shadow behind him, and for a second, you almost didn’t recognize him like that, so still, so quiet.

Then you heard it.

A soft sniff. The sound of someone trying very, very hard to keep it together.

You hesitated. Your instinct told you to leave, to give him space. But another part of you, something deeper, something that knew him said to stay.

“Hyung?” you said quietly.

He jumped slightly, dragging a hand quickly across his face. “Ah, shit,” he muttered, blinking rapidly. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You took a slow step forward. “You okay?”

Chan let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a scoff. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” He wiped at his face again, gesturing vaguely to the room. “Just sweating. It’s hot in here.”

You gave him a look. “Sweating. While sitting completely still. In the dark.”

He sniffed again and chuckled weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. “Yep. That’s the story I’m going with.”

You didn’t call him out. You just walked over and sat down beside him, close enough that your arms touched. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was familiar. Grounding.

He exhaled slowly. “You really scared me, you know.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“I saw you go down and my brain just… stopped. I don’t even remember running to you. I just remember the sound. The way everything went quiet. Like the whole world paused.”

His voice cracked at the end, but he cleared his throat quickly and looked away.

“You’re always looking out for us,” you said. “And I get it. That pressure, that responsibility. You carry all of it. And when something slips through the cracks…”

He shook his head. “It shouldn’t have. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. You weren’t okay, and I missed it.”

“Because I hid it,” you said firmly. “I’ve had practice. Smiling when I’m falling apart. Telling everyone I’m fine so they won’t worry.”

He was quiet again.

Then he said, softer this time, “But I still should’ve seen it. That’s the part that keeps hitting me. I was so focused on keeping everything running that I didn’t even realize one of my members was running on empty.”

You leaned your head back against the mirror. “You’re not a machine, Chan.”

He let out a weak laugh. “Try telling that to my reflection.”

You turned your head toward him. “You didn’t fail me. You didn’t let me down. I pushed myself too hard because I thought it was what I was supposed to do. I thought being strong meant never asking for help.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

“I get it now,” you said. “And I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to let you in. Let all of you in. Because if I’d said something earlier, even once…”

“We would’ve caught you,” he finished, voice thick. “Every damn time.”

You nodded. “So no more hiding. From either of us.”

He finally looked at you then, really looked, eyes glassy, tired, but softer now. There was a hint of a smile there, fragile but real.

“You know,” he said, nudging your arm, “I was gonna pretend I came in here to revise the setlist.”

You raised a brow. “With your hoodie over your face and tear streaks on your cheeks?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Sweat streaks.”

“Uh-huh.”

He let out a proper laugh this time. It was quiet, but genuine. Then his expression sobered again.

“Promise me something?” he asked.

“Anything.”

“If it ever starts to feel like too much again, even a little, you’ll tell me. No more toughing it out. No more pretending.”

“I promise,” you said, without hesitation.

“And I’ll do the same,” he added after a beat, voice softer. “Because you’re not the only one who’s been running on empty.”

You reached out and laced your fingers with his, grounding each other in the stillness of the room.

The pressure didn’t go away. The world outside was still spinning fast. But here, in this moment, you weren’t falling behind.

You were just… still.

Together.

//

masterlist.

[for #🐰 anon, sorry this took so long.. i hope u enjoy]

[wordsofwhimsy]

𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙗𝙤𝙮

Pairing: Lensless!Mark Grayson x Reader

Warning: Violence

Inspiration: “Loverboy” by A-Wall

—synopsis—

you break up with Mark and he absolutely loses his shit

a/n: i keep thinking about the turning point for all the variants, the moment when they finally go full psycho. this is my take on how it went down for the most unhinged of the bunch 😛 if y’all like this idea i might do the same setup for some of the other variants c: also can someone tell me how to center shit? i can't stand the way this photo is aligned to the left

Mark Grayson stood there, staring at his phone like it was some kind of strange, foreign object. The message from you, the words that had just shattered his world, danced in front of his eyes, flickering and mocking him.

We need to break up. I can’t do this anymore.

He blinked, once, twice—hoping the words would change. But no, they stayed there, taunting him. We need to break up. I can’t do this anymore. Over and over. His mind spun, his heart dropped. The world felt like it was suddenly tilting sideways.

No, no, no, he thought, shaking his head, trying to make sense of it. This can’t be happening. He had fought aliens. He had stopped monsters. He had beaten back threats from across the universe—and yet, here he was, powerless, staring at a screen.

His hands started to shake. He dropped the phone, watching it crack on the floor.

Why?

The question echoed in his head, over and over again. Why? What had he done wrong? He was Invincible, wasn’t he? He had saved the world. He had fought for the good of everyone… And you just throw it all away?

He couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened. The suffocating pressure, the sting of betrayal—it all built up, bubbling beneath the surface.

But I’m not enough, am I? His voice, in his head, started to change—warped. Bitter. Angry. The hero, the one who always stood tall, suddenly felt small. No one was there to save him. Not you. Not anyone. Everyone had left him to stand alone, even when he gave everything for them.

His eyes darkened. His teeth clenched. The anger… it was coming. The rage, the darkness—it was pulling at him like a tidal wave.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

The phone rang. It was his father—Omni-Man. The same man who had told him all those awful truths about the world. The one who had turned everything upside down.

Mark didn’t even bother to answer. No one could save him anymore. Not his father. Not anyone.

His fists clenched, and the room around him started to crack. He could feel it—the power surging through his body, the rage making him tremble. Every muscle in him screamed for release.

They all leave eventually. He thought of you. Of how you’d just thrown him away like a broken toy. It was sickening. He could feel it crawling under his skin—like something was snapping inside him.

I tried. I really tried to be good, to do everything right, but it never mattered, did it? Now? Now the world was his playground. They all wanted him to break. And they would get exactly what they wanted.

He stepped outside, shot into the air with charged energy, the world below him nothing but a blur of lights and noise. He needed this. Wanted it. It was the only thing that felt real anymore. He could hear the people below, terrified. They had no idea. They had no idea what he was about to become.

Mark grinned. It was a twisted, manic grin—a grin that didn’t belong on the face of the boy who had once been a hero.

“I did everything for you.” He muttered to himself, his voice thick with insanity. He floated over the city, his eyes gleaming with something darker than hate. “Everything. For you. And you—” He laughed, an unhinged, breathless sound that filled the empty space. “You don’t even care, do you?”

The city trembled beneath him, a test, a challenge.

He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t need to. In fact… it felt good. No, it felt great.

With a violent snap of his wrist, the skyline cracked, buildings folding under his power. People screamed below him, running, hiding.

“Oh, don’t worry!” Mark called out, his voice light and playful, as if this was just another game. “It’s not the end. Not yet, anyway. We’ve got all night, right?”

He paused, letting the devastation sink in. The city was crumbling, and he was loving every second of it. He hovered there, savoring it, as the world around him burned.

Hours later, the night was still. The destruction was only a whisper now, the silence hanging in the air like a promise. Mark flew through the streets, his mind buzzing with a strange kind of glee. His thoughts were chaotic, but one thing was clear.

He knew where you were.

Mark floated toward your house, the familiar street now a place of twisted anticipation. It was so quiet. Too quiet.

He could see your lights on through the window. He could hear your heartbeat, faint but steady, inside.

A manic grin spread across his face. He didn’t need to think anymore. It was all so simple now. The game was changing. The stakes? Well, they were everything.

Mark landed gently on the lawn, the grass bending under his feet. He didn’t knock. He didn’t have to.

He could feel the power surging through him, making his skin hum with excitement. He was a bomb ready to explode, and you were the fuse.

“You know,” he said, voice dripping with dark amusement as he slowly approached the door, his steps heavy, controlled. “I thought maybe I’d let you see what happens next. But I think it’ll be more fun if you feel it.” He grinned, twisted, and so full of madness.

The door creaked open, just a crack. He leaned in, his eyes glowing with a dangerous light.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll enjoy this. Not so sure about you though.”

And with that, the door flew open, the shadows swallowing the light from inside.

Part Two!

[paucubarsisimp]

charles leclerc x actress!reader x alexandra supporting her when she wins her first Oscar?

oscars

pairing: poly!charles leclerc x reader x alexandra saint mleux

summary: in which you receive your first oscar

warnings: none

a/n: sry it took a while, i had a maths exam i had to study for but here it is bby 💕

the air in the auditorium was electric, every single person holding their breath as the host reached for the envelope. you stood there, your hands trembling in nervous excitement, side by side with alexandra and charles. you couldn’t believe this was happening. your heart raced as the host’s voice rang out:

“and the oscar goes to… y/n l/n!”

time froze for a moment, and then everything hit you like a tidal wave. you blinked, still trying to process the words that rang through your ears. you could barely feel your legs move as alexandra gave you a soft nudge, her lips curled into a grin, her eyes sparkling with tears. “you did it,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

charles, who had been standing close, reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “so proud of you,” he said, his voice low and full of pride. you glanced up at him and felt a rush of love wash over you. you could see it in both of their eyes—everything you had been working toward, everything you had sacrificed, had led to this moment.

as you made your way up to the stage, the applause crashing around you, you felt like you were floating. you stepped onto the stage, the weight of the oscar finally settling in your hands, but it wasn’t the award that made you feel grounded. it was the thought of them—your two rocks, your constant support. you took a deep breath into the microphone.

“thank you,” you whispered at first, voice barely above a breath. “this is more than a dream come true… it’s a gift. to everyone who believed in me, especially to alexandra and charles… i wouldn’t be here without you.”

as you spoke, your eyes found both of them in the crowd. alexandra’s expression was soft, proud, but there was something else there—a depth of emotion that you couldn’t quite put into words. charles, standing next to her, had a smile so wide it almost hurt. you didn’t know how you had gotten so lucky.

when you finished your speech, the applause was overwhelming, but it all felt distant compared to the people waiting for you backstage. you quickly exited, finding both of them standing right there, ready to pull you into their arms. you didn’t even give a second thought before you wrapped your arms around alexandra, pulling her into a deep kiss, the oscar still tightly held in one hand. the world could have stopped spinning right there, and you wouldn’t have cared. her lips tasted of joy and pride.

“i knew you could do it,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes.

before you could respond, charles was there, his arms around both of you, pulling you into an embrace that felt like everything in the world had aligned. you tilted your head up, catching his lips with yours. it was soft at first, a gentle kiss, but then it deepened, and you could feel everything—the weight of the moment, the love between the three of you, the culmination of everything you had worked toward.

“you deserve this, all of it,” charles whispered against your lips. “you’re amazing.”

you smiled against him, your heart so full you thought it might burst. “thank you… both of you. i couldn’t have done it without you.”

you pulled alexandra into the kiss again, the three of you lost in a moment of pure happiness and connection. everything had led to this—this beautiful, perfect moment where the three of you could just be together, celebrating not just the win, but the journey.

it was more than just a trophy. it was love. it was support. it was everything.

[mintyys-blog]

Minty

Since you did Pearl reader do you think you can do Lapis or Jasper reader?

TRUST | mark grayson x lapis! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: trauma

The next time you saw Mark, it wasn’t on the hill.

It was in chaos.

You hadn’t meant to be near the city. Too many people, too much noise, eyes that felt like daggers. But the sky had cracked open with the sound of something wrong, and your instincts pulled you toward it.

That’s when you saw him—Mark, bloodied, breathing hard, grounded by some brute in black armor. The air around them shimmered from the force of their blows, debris flying, buildings crumbling.

Your chest tightened. You didn’t think. You moved.

The earth below cracked as you shot forward, trailing water behind you like wings. The villain had Mark by the throat, lifting him for the final blow.

“Get your hands off him.”

Your voice rang through the air like thunder, low but sharp, and your hand lifted—water surging from a broken hydrant behind you like a spear.

The armored man turned, but not fast enough.

The water hit with enough force to send him flying into a crumbled bus. The metal shrieked as it bent, cradling his impact like a coffin.

Mark coughed and fell to one knee, hand to his ribs. “Y/N…?”

You dropped beside him, hands trembling, more from panic than effort.

“I told you I don’t like people,” you said, voice still quiet—but laced with something raw, unfiltered. “But if someone hurts you, I’ll kill them.”

Mark blinked, surprised—not at your power, but at the fury in your tone. The way your eyes shone like tidal waves barely held back.

He gave a strained chuckle, even as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m special, huh?”

You didn’t smile, but your eyes softened. You reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing his jaw, just enough to check if he was real. If he was still here.

“You are,” you whispered.

That was the first time you touched him.

And he didn’t flinch. He leaned into it.

The fight wasn’t over. The villain was stirring. But in that moment, with your palm against his skin and your body shielding his, you felt something shift.

Not the earth. Not the wind.

You.

You’d always been scared of feeling too much. Of trusting too deeply. Of losing control. Maybe it wasn’t so terrifying anymore. Maybe it didn’t have to be.

Things had been… better.

You’d started to speak more. Not a lot, but enough. Enough that Mark noticed. Enough that you noticed. Sometimes your hand would brush his, and you wouldn’t flinch. Sometimes you’d laugh—quiet, unsure, like the sound startled you. Like it wasn’t yours.

But then came the night.

The nightmare pulled you under like a riptide.

The mirror.

The cold, endless reflection. The weight of isolation so heavy it pressed against your chest even in sleep. You were screaming in your mind, fists pounding against glass that never cracked. The memory of being used, manipulated, trapped in a loop of someone else’s control—it bled into the dream until it was all you could feel.

You woke with a gasp.

Sweat clung to your skin. The room felt too small, too loud, too close. And the water… the water responded.

It twisted around you like a storm, rising from your palms and the pipes in the walls, swirling into jagged shapes. You couldn’t control it. Your hands shook as you tried. Your breath came in short, ragged pulls.

You fled.

Out the window, through the clouds, to the only place that ever felt still—the hill.

You landed hard, dropping to your knees. The grass bent under your weight, and the sky above was a dull gray, no stars tonight.

The wind howled.

The water spiraled around you—angry, wild, writhing like it remembered too. No matter how much you tried to force it calm, it refused to obey. You dug your fingers into the dirt.

“This is why I stay quiet…” you muttered. “Why I stay away.”

You hated this. The feeling of weakness. The feeling of being small again. You were supposed to be past this.

Then, suddenly— “Y/N?”

You didn’t need to look.

Mark.

He landed a few feet away, breathless, like he’d flown nonstop to find you.

Your heart stuttered.

“Don’t,” you rasped. “Don’t come closer. I can’t— I don’t have control.”

The water flared in warning behind you. You weren’t lying. A misstep and it could hurt him.

“I don’t care,” Mark said firmly.

You finally turned to face him—eyes wide, glowing faint blue, fear bleeding through.

“I’m not safe like this,” you whispered.

“I’ve seen you at your worst,” he said, walking forward slowly. “And even then, you never scared me.”

Your hands clenched.

“I was trapped, Mark. In that mirror. Watched the world pass me by. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.” Your voice cracked. “And now, when it comes back… when it wraps around me like it used to, I feel like I’m drowning.”

“I know,” he said gently, reaching toward you.

You shook your head violently. “Don’t—”

But he stepped closer anyway.

And wrapped his arms around you.

The water shot up like a wall—but stopped. Hovered. Hung there, trembling, unsure.

You froze. His warmth pressed against you, real and grounding. No fear. No hesitation.

You felt your own hands tremble before they clutched the back of his shirt, gripping like you might sink if you let go.

And slowly, the water fell.

A quiet rain.

You buried your face into his shoulder, breath shuddering.

“I hate that it still controls me,” you choked out.

“It doesn’t,” he said softly. “You’re fighting it. That’s what matters.”

You didn’t answer, but your hold on him didn’t loosen. His heartbeat was steady against your cheek. And for the first time since the nightmare, you felt something anchor you.

You were still afraid.

But you weren’t alone.

Not anymore.

[airybcby]

hii I wanted to send a request for the more than a married couple event😋 I wanted to request rin and the emojis 🫐 and 🧁

Hi!!

A Rin Itoshi Blueberry Cupcake

જ⁀♡⊹｡° but my luck couldn't get any worse

♡ a/n — for my more than a married couple event

♡ content — rin itoshi x gn! reader, gn! reader, rin still plays soccer, people view rin as 'cold' and 'cruel', one bed trope, kinda forced proximity(?), made it where rin doesn't mean to be cold he just doesn't know how to interact with others, set in high school (third year/senior year), mention of god one or twice, rin is a DIVA (he doesn't wanna sleep on the couch)

♡ synopsis — you could live with rin itoshi as long as the two of you just stayed out of each others space. that was the easy part...until his bed decided to break.

The marriage simulation announcement hit the school like a tidal wave. Some students were giddy with anticipation, while others, like you, wanted to melt into the floor. Living with someone and pretending to be married for an entire month? The idea alone made your stomach churn.

But nothing prepared you for what happened next.

Your name. Rin Itoshi’s name. Side by side on the pairing list.

The moment you saw it, the air seemed to shift. Whispers darted through the room like wildfire, and everyone’s eyes locked on you. You looked over at Rin, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but his piercing teal eyes glanced briefly in your direction before looking away again.

"Good luck," someone muttered, half-pitying, half-jealous.

With the reputation Rin Itoshi held, you thought you may need more than luck to survive the next month.

The silence in the simulation apartment was deafening when you and Rin first arrived. Like the other couples, you were handed a list of tasks and expectations, ranging from grocery shopping to date nights to budgeting your "shared" finances. Unlike most of the other pairs, however, Rin made no effort to hide his disinterest.

He surveyed the apartment with a sharp gaze before retreating to his room with barely a word. You were left standing in the living room, clutching the folder of instructions and wondering how you’d survive the next month.

It didn’t help that Rin had a reputation. Brooding, blunt, and fiercely competitive—those were the words most people used to describe him. But as the days went on, you realized there was more to him than that.

Rin wasn’t completely unbearable. In fact, he was startlingly efficient when it came to the tasks. Cooking, cleaning, and even budgeting—he handled it all with precision, as if he were strategizing for a soccer match. But the atmosphere between you remained tense, like walking on eggshells.

Until the incident with the bed.

It happened a week into the simulation. You were reading through the task list when Rin walked out of his room, an unusually irritated look on his face.

“There’s a problem,” he said flatly.

“What kind of problem?” you asked warily, putting the list down.

He gestured toward the open door of his room. “The bed frame broke.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“The bed frame,” he repeated, his tone clipped. “It’s broken. Maintenance won’t fix it until next week.”

“Oh.” You hesitated. “I guess you’ll have to… sleep on the couch?”

Rin’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “The couch is too small.”

“Well, then what—” You stopped mid-sentence as the realization hit you. “No. Absolutely not.”

“It’s just a bed,” he said, crossing his arms. “I don’t care.”

“Yeah, but—” You faltered, heat rushing to your cheeks. Sharing a bed with Rin Itoshi? That sounded like the setup to a bad rom-com, not something you’d willingly agree to. But his expression left little room for argument.

“Fine,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “But stay on your side.”

That night, you lay stiffly on one side of the bed, clutching the blanket like a lifeline. Rin was equally silent beside you, his back turned as if to create as much distance as possible. The bed wasn’t small, but it felt like it, the awareness of his presence making every breath feel amplified.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath.

“What is?” Rin’s voice cut through the darkness.

“This. All of this,” you said, gesturing vaguely even though he couldn’t see. “The simulation, the tasks, the… shared bed situation.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected. “It’s not like I asked for this either.”

“I know,” you sighed. “But it’s just so… awkward.”

Rin shifted slightly, and you felt the mattress dip beneath his weight. “Then stop overthinking it.”

You turned your head to look at him, surprised by his candidness. His profile was outlined faintly by the moonlight streaming through the window, and for a moment, you saw a different side of him—less guarded, more human.

“Easier said than done,” you murmured, rolling onto your back.

Rin didn’t reply, but his presence felt a little less suffocating after that.

Oh and, also, the matienence people never came to fix his bedframe. You were sure this was some sort of malicious prank on you. As if god himself had been watching you like this was a comedy only he found funny.

One morning, about halfway through the week, you woke to the warmth of something solid and steady pressed against you. For a moment, you didn’t move, still caught in that hazy place between sleep and wakefulness. It wasn’t until you shifted slightly that you realized Rin’s arm was draped over your waist, his chest rising and falling against your back.

Your eyes flew open. How had this even happened?

Slowly, you turned your head to glance back at him, your heart racing. Rin was still asleep, his expression unusually peaceful. The usual tension in his features was gone, replaced by something softer, something you couldn’t quite describe.

You thought about moving, but the warmth of his arm, the weight of his presence—it wasn’t… uncomfortable. And judging by how relaxed he seemed, he didn’t seem to mind either.

So you stayed. Just for a little while longer.

When Rin finally stirred, his eyes fluttering open, you braced yourself for the inevitable awkwardness. But to your surprise, he didn’t pull away immediately. His gaze met yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence was thick, but not unbearable.

Then, he spoke. “...How did this happen?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Rin’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he finally moved, his arm sliding away as he sat up. “It’s… whatever,” he muttered, his tone strangely subdued. “Don’t overthink it.”

You sat up too, your heart still pounding. “I wasn’t—”

“Good.” He got out of bed and walked toward the bathroom, his movements uncharacteristically hesitant. Just before disappearing inside, he paused. “...Sorry, by the way.”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For that,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the bed. And then he was gone.

You stared after him, your thoughts swirling. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was something.

The following days brought small but surprising changes. Rin, while still stoic, seemed to make more of an effort to engage with you. It wasn’t much—an extra question here, a quiet comment there—but it was enough to shift the dynamic between you.

And then there were the moments when the “fake couple” act forced you closer than you were comfortable admitting. Holding hands in public, sitting closer during classes, and—most unnerving of all—the lingering touches that came with the territory.

“It’s for the grade,” Rin said one afternoon, his hand resting lightly on your lower back as you walked into a mock “family dinner” event.

“Sure,” you replied, trying to ignore the way your heart sped up at his touch.

The bed situation, meanwhile, remained an unspoken tension between you. Every night, you’d lie on opposite sides, trying your best to ignore the proximity. But as the days went on, the awkwardness began to fade.

One night, after an exhausting day of tasks, you both collapsed onto the bed without much ceremony. You didn’t even realize how close you’d ended up until you felt Rin’s arm brush against yours.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, moving to create space.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “It’s fine.”

You glanced at him, surprised. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, but there was something oddly comforting about his presence. Against your better judgment, you allowed yourself to relax.

By the final week of the simulation, the line between “fake” and “real” had become increasingly blurred. Rin wasn’t just tolerable—he was… comforting. Reliable. And, though you hated to admit it, you found yourself looking forward to his company.

The realization hit you like a freight train one evening as you sat together on the couch, going over the final budget task. He looked up from the spreadsheet, his teal eyes meeting yours, and you felt your heart skip a beat.

“You’re staring,” he said bluntly.

You blinked, heat rushing to your face. “No, I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press the issue. Instead, he returned to the spreadsheet, leaving you to grapple with your own feelings.

The final task—a formal dinner—was both a relief and a heartbreak. As you stood side by side, dressed to the nines and presenting your “marriage” portfolio to the grading panel, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. The simulation was almost over.

When it ended, the apartment felt strangely empty. You packed your things in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you.

“Hey,” Rin said suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. “I don’t want this to be over.”

You stared at him, unsure if you’d heard him correctly. “What?”

“This,” he said, his voice firmer now. “I don’t want it to go back to the way it was.”

A lump formed in your throat as his words sank in. “Rin…”

Before you could say anything else, he stepped closer, his teal eyes locking onto yours. “You don’t have to say anything now. Just… think about it.”

As if you needed time to think about being with the Rin Itoshi.

ugh i love rin so much

i hope you liked it!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[linaaparkes]

BENEATH THE SCRUBS

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙋𝙞𝙩𝙩 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝙅𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝘼𝙗𝙗𝙤𝙩 𝙭 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨: 𝘼𝙛𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙛𝙩 𝙤𝙣 𝙖 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩, 𝙅𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙬𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙤 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙢 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙢 𝙪𝙥.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝙎𝙈𝙐𝙏 (𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙊𝙍𝙎 𝘿𝙊 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙏), 𝙨𝙚𝙭𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙟𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙖𝙗𝙗𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙫𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙖.

When Jack got home, the first thing he did was climb into bed beside you, his body still chilly from the weather outside. “You’re cold” you murmured, lazily gripping his hand. He leaned down next to you, lips ghosting over your ear “help me warm up?”

Pants and grunts echoed throughout the room, interrupting its previous stillness. Rough hands slid up your body; usually, it would be slow touches, gently caressing your soft skin, but right now it was rough, demanding, as if Jack wanted to devour you whole. You whimpered and dug your nails into his back, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as waves of pleasure flowed through your senses like tidal waves. The steady rhythm of his hips was almost too much for you to handle; his breath hitched when you involuntarily clenched around him, drawing a strained groan from his throat. 

Continued whimpers escaped you, perfectly aligned with Jack's thrusts, and you tilted your head back onto the pillows, hair splaying over them, baring your neck to Jack. He paused for a second and brought a hand up to your face, gently caressing your cheekbone and wiping away the tears that had escaped your eyes. 

"Eyes on me, sweetheart," he said, watching your eyes snap open, blurry and unfocused, fluttering slightly as he continued rolling his hips. He hummed in approval. He leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to your lips, continuing to trail down your cheek and neck, stopping at your collarbone. You felt a sharp sting on the protruding bone, followed by a warm lick of his tongue and an oh-so-sweet kiss. You couldn't move, only lying there as Jack took complete and utter control of your mind and body. Not that you would have it any other way. 

His thumb pressed against your carotid artery, feeling the quickening of your pulse the longer he continued his ministrations. Sweet moans fell from your lips, and your hips fell open more and more, practically welcoming him in. He lifted his head from the junction of your neck, watching you with all his clinical precision. He reveled in it, your parted lips, the flush spread against your cheeks and chest, the sheen of sweat clinging to your body— tiny droplets clinging to your forehead, and the way your eyes would flutter shut, only to snap open again as he moved inside her. 

Your body trembled beneath his, tensing when you felt his free hand travel down your body, between the junction of your joined bodies, to reach your clit. Your cries rang out louder than before, hips bucked against his as calloused fingers worked on bringing you closer to your climax. Your eyes strained to stay focused on him, the pleasure coursing through you too much. 

Jack watched; pretty moans escaped your even prettier lips, growing in volume when he kept his pace, and between the rolling of his hips, pushing his cock farther into you, and the tight circles he drew on your clit, you would last much longer. Your breath caught in your throat, and your impending release shook your body as you clawed at his back. You whimpered out, "Jack, I—I'm close." 

"I know, take everything from me, beautiful…" 

Jack looked on, satisfied as you came, your back arched, muscles tight, his name flowing from your lips like the most sacred prayer. He groaned as you pulsed around him, your release enough for him to reach his limit right with you. He pulled out just in time, more and more strings of cum coating your stomach as the seconds passed on. 

Your arms dropped from around him, legs still spread, head tilted back in exhaustion. A laugh of disbelief escaped you, and you tilted your head to face him again, eyes softening as his eyes watched you come down from your high. Jacked hunched down, rough hands massaging your undoubtedly sore thighs, then leaned down further towards your—

He chuckled as you squealed, his tongue flicking out to taste you, taste what he did to you. Strong arms wrapped around your legs, and he settled comfortably between your thighs. 

You gasped. "Jack, what are you—," he hushed you, the tip of his tongue flicking your sensitive clit. It hurt in the best way possible, and you blushed as you felt more of your release drip out of you only for him to lap it up. You reached down to tug on his hair, fingers carding through silvery curls. 

"You're insatiable," you crooned, arching your back as you tentatively gave in to his ministrations, your back arching in pleasure. Your eyes snapped shut, pants quickly left you, matching the speed of the rise and fall of your chest. "You love it," he replied, smirking into your cunt, and you could only give a tug of his hair in retaliation. He chuckled, the vibrations sending vibrations through you. 

When he was finished with you, leaving you panting and exhausted, hazel eyes met yours, and you both smiled as if all the secrets in the world were shared between you two— in his house, in his messy bed with rumpled sheets and sweaty bodies, windows fogged with perspiration. 

“Are you warm enough, husband?”

“Oh I think I am, wife”

He'd never get used to this, him, you, together. 

But he'll cherish every moment. 

a/n: hehehehe :)

[moonlight-joy]

The Heir’s Legacy

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: In a momentous feast at the Red Keep, Jacaerys Velaryon is unexpectedly named heir to the Iron Throne, setting in motion a tidal wave of political intrigue, family alliances, and looming threats, as you and Rhaenyra pledge to stand by him in the face of the burdens and dangers ahead.

Pairing: Reader/Jacaerys Velaryon

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was alight with celebration. It was a feast in your honor, a joyous occasion to announce the long-awaited news that you and Jacaerys Velaryon were expecting your first child. Musicians played lively tunes, lords and ladies raised goblets in congratulations, and your husband’s smile never faltered as he held your hand tightly, his thumb brushing reassuring circles against your skin.

“You are glowing,” Jacaerys murmured, his voice low and full of warmth as he leaned toward you. The soft candlelight caught in his dark hair, the silver undertones of his Velaryon lineage shimmering like starlight. His brown eyes held a tenderness that made your heart flutter. “I think they’ve never seen you look more radiant.”

“And you,” you replied softly, your voice carrying just enough teasing to bring out his boyish grin, “look as though you’ve never been happier.”

“I haven’t,” he admitted, his eyes flicking to your still-flat stomach with a reverence that made your cheeks flush. “This is our legacy, love. You’ve made me the happiest man in the realm.”

The two of you shared a quiet moment, your fingers intertwined beneath the table. Despite the noise of the hall, it felt as though the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

But the evening was far from over.

---

The sound of a goblet striking the table rang out like a bell, silencing the hall. All eyes turned toward the head of the table where King Viserys sat, his face alight with a rare energy. His silver hair shone under the golden glow of the chandeliers, and though the years had not been kind to him, tonight he seemed revitalized, his expression clear and determined.

“My lords and ladies,” Viserys began, his voice strong despite his frailty. “We gather tonight to celebrate the most joyous of news—my grandson Jacaerys Velaryon and his wife are to bring forth a child. A child of pure Targaryen blood, destined to carry on the legacy of our house.”

A murmur of approval swept through the hall, but Viserys raised a hand, commanding silence once more.

“This is a time of great change,” he continued, his tone taking on a weight that made your stomach twist with anticipation. Jacaerys straightened beside you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “And it is only fitting that we look to the future. The realm deserves a clear line of succession, one that reflects the strength and unity of our house.”

The murmurs grew louder now, a ripple of confusion and intrigue passing through the gathered nobility. You glanced at Jacaerys, whose brows furrowed in silent question, but neither of you could have predicted what came next.

“It is with great pride,” Viserys declared, his voice rising, “that I name Jacaerys Velaryon as my heir to the Iron Throne.”

The hall erupted. Gasps and murmurs of shock gave way to applause, though not all present clapped with the same enthusiasm. The announcement was as unexpected as it was monumental, a bold declaration that shifted the balance of power in an instant.

You looked at Jacaerys, whose expression was a mixture of disbelief and resolve. Slowly, he rose to his feet, his hand slipping from yours as he stepped forward to face his grandsire.

“Your Grace,” Jacaerys said, his voice steady despite the chaos around him. “I am honored beyond measure by your trust. I swear to uphold the legacy of House Targaryen with the strength of my ancestors and the wisdom of your reign.”

Viserys smiled, his pride evident as he gestured for Jacaerys to sit. But as your husband returned to his seat, his gaze met yours, and in that moment, you saw the weight of what had just been placed upon him.

---

The rest of the feast passed in a blur. While many came to offer their congratulations, others were less subtle in their skepticism. Alicent Hightower’s expression had been unreadable, though her fingers tapped against her goblet in what you could only interpret as disapproval. Ser Otto stood close to her, his calculating gaze flicking between you, Jacaerys, and the king. It was clear the announcement had caught them off guard.

---

The feast had ended, but the tension lingered long after the last goblet was drained and the final guest departed. The news of Jacaerys' ascension to heir had rippled through the Red Keep like wildfire, leaving whispers of awe and dissent in its wake. As you and Jacaerys returned to your chambers, a soft knock at the door interrupted the fragile silence.

Jacaerys opened it to find his mother, Rhaenyra, standing in the dimly lit corridor. Her silver hair was unbound, flowing over her shoulders, and her violet eyes shimmered with a mix of pride and concern. She stepped inside without a word, her gaze falling on you briefly before focusing entirely on her son.

“Mother,” Jacaerys said, surprised. “I did not expect you tonight.”

“How could I not come?” Rhaenyra replied softly, her voice carrying both warmth and steel. “My son has just been named heir to the Iron Throne. I would have words with you before the weight of the crown settles too heavily on your shoulders.”

You stepped back, sensing the significance of the moment, but Rhaenyra reached out to clasp your hand briefly. “Stay,” she said, her tone kind but firm. “You are as much a part of this as he is. Your child will carry this legacy forward.”

Her words sent a shiver through you, the weight of the truth settling over your heart. You nodded and sat down near the hearth, allowing mother and son to speak freely while you remained a quiet witness.

---

Rhaenyra turned to Jacaerys, her expression softening as she placed a hand on his cheek. “You have always carried yourself with honor, Jace. Even as a boy, I knew you were destined for greatness. But tonight…” Her voice faltered for a moment, and she let out a breath. “Tonight, you stepped into the shoes of kings. And I am proud of you.”

Jacaerys’ brow furrowed, his eyes searching hers. “But?” he asked, sensing the unspoken caution in her tone.

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, her hand falling to her side. “But I know the cost of being named heir,” she admitted. “I know the burdens it brings. The alliances that will shift. The enemies that will rise. And now, with you carrying this weight… I cannot help but fear for you.”

“Mother,” Jacaerys said, his voice steady, though his brow creased with worry, “you have borne this weight yourself. You know what it means to fight for what is ours. I will not falter, not when I have you, my wife, and our child to guide me.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked to you, her expression softening further. “And you,” she said, addressing you directly now, “you will be his greatest strength. Never let the world convince you otherwise. You are as much a dragon as any of us.”

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “I will stand by him always, Princess.”

“Good,” Rhaenyra said, turning back to Jacaerys. “But remember, my son, this moment will not sit well with everyone. Alicent and her father will see this as a challenge to their influence. And Aegon…” Her lips tightened. “He will not relinquish what he believes is his right.”

Jacaerys’ jaw clenched, the mention of his uncle stirring a flicker of anger in his eyes. “Let Aegon believe what he will,” he said. “I will not shy away from what is mine. If he challenges me, I will remind him that dragons answer only to fire and blood.”

Rhaenyra studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she stepped closer and cupped his face in her hands. “You are ready,” she said quietly. “But do not let ambition blind you to what matters most. The throne is a heavy burden, Jace, but it is nothing without love, without family. Do not forget that.”

“I won’t,” he promised, his voice softening. “And I will make you proud, Mother.”

“You already have,” she whispered, pulling him into a brief but fierce embrace.

---

After Rhaenyra left, the room felt quieter, though the weight of her words lingered in the air. Jacaerys sat beside you, his shoulders slightly hunched, his expression thoughtful. You placed a hand on his arm, grounding him in the moment.

“She’s right, you know,” you said gently. “This won’t be easy. But we’ll face it together.”

Jacaerys turned to you, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and affection. “I couldn’t do this without you,” he said. “You and our child… you are my reason for everything. Whatever comes, we will rise above it.”

You smiled, leaning into him as he wrapped an arm around you, holding you close. Together, you gazed into the fire, its flames dancing like the dragons whose legacy you would now carry forward.

Please support my work with like and comment

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Words Related to the Beach

Boardwalk - a wooden path along a beach

Brine - the salty water of the ocean

Buoy - an object that floats on water in a lake, bay, river, etc., to show areas that are safe or dangerous for boats

Conch - a very large sea snail with a tall thick spiral shell

Coral - a tiny soft-bodied animal that typically lives within a stony skeleton grouped in large colonies and that is related to the jellyfish

Current - a body of fluid (as air or water) moving in a specified direction

Decuman - of a wave: extremely large; huge

Dune - a hill of sand near an ocean or in a desert that is formed by the wind

Kelp - a large brown seaweed

Lagoon - a shallow channel or pond near or connected to a larger body of water

Lido - a fashionable beach resort

Lifeguard - a person employed at a beach or swimming pool to protect swimmers from drowning

Plage - the beach of a seaside resort

Praya - beach, strand, waterfront

Reef - a chain of rocks or coral or a ridge of sand at or near the surface of water

Sand dollar - a flat round sea urchin

Spindrift - sea spray

Swash - the rush of water up a beach from a breaking wave

Tide - the rising and falling of the surface of the ocean caused twice daily by the attraction of the sun and the moon

Undertow - a current beneath the surface of the water that moves away from or along the shore while the surface water above it moves toward the shore

Types of Tides

ebb tide: the tide while ebbing or at ebb (i.e., move away from the land; recede)

high tide: the tide when the water is at its greatest height

low tide: the farthest ebb of the tide

neap tide: a tide of minimum range occurring at the first and the third quarters of the moon

riptide: a strong usually narrow current of water that flows away from a shore

springtide: a tide of greater-than-average range around the times of new moon and full moon

storm tide: a high tide that is significantly higher than normal due to onshore winds reinforcing tidal action

Source ⚜ More: Word Lists ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[simonscumdump]

Try Harder.

Simon Riley x F!RecruitOC.

Minors DO NOT FUCKING INTERACT thank you 🖤

————————————————————————

Summary: Her Lieutenant has an issue with her skills after a problem on a mission. He’s taken it upon himself to fix it only to find out how he truly felt.

Warnings: hints of possible attempted assault?. He’s a meaniehead to start with. Derogatory comments. Unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it). That slow hard kinda fucking. Creampie. Lil bit of a scent kink? He’s thirsty. Oral (F receiving). Fingering. Biting/hickies. Slight thigh riding? Minor amount of choking? He was scared okay? Vague admission of feelings. Praise. Shit punctuation. He’s a little forceful. Clothed Simon/Naked Serena. Brief nip play.

Have fun? 😅 none of those warnings are in order.

It’s a not that long… i don’t think 😀.

————————————————————————-

It was never meant to happen. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been trained for these situations.

Weeks of drills, months of training. All of it wasn’t for nothing.

Yet, when Simon found her, all he could feel was disappointment. He should’ve felt proud really, Serena had managed to fend off for long enough that the team was able to get to her before anything happened.

But the state of her…was what led to his disappointment.

Her uniform, once pristine and worn with honour was torn. Dirt marks on visible skin too similar to the shape of the fingers that grabbed at her. A budding bruise to her face that made his eye twitch just looking at it.

She was trained for this.

It was never meant to happen.

She wasn’t supposed to get separated. She wasn’t supposed to be so reckless. So…fragile.

“Go get in the fuckin’ truck.” Simon’s voice rang out into the open space, a low tone that sent a cold shiver down her spine. Maybe he was too soft on her at the start. Maybe he didn’t pay enough attention to her training. Maybe he-

Who was he kidding? It was no fault of his that she ended up so…useless.

———

The ride back to base was a quiet one. A tense air almost coated him like a visible aura. No one was allowed to even look at him without earning the ugliest side eye.

“Keep your fuckin’ eye on the road. Last thing we need is a god damn crash.” His words were biting, sharp and snappy.

His attitude had grown so…sour that even Soap was beginning to question it.

“Who pissed in your cereal today, LT? We’re going back with no casualties, that’s a good day if I say so myself.” The Scotsman spoke, yet he didn’t earn anything but a low grumbling sound from the man.

“Barely made it out.” His words were quiet, but the glare he gave Serena was louder than anything. She hadn’t looked at him once since she got in the truck. Her head hung low and her arms wrapped around herself.

Useless.

Fragile.

Not fit to be a soldier.

She could borderline feel the man’s thoughts. His disappointment a never ending tidal wave just through the deep brown irises burning a hole into her head.

———

It started once she had been cleared in medical.

Unforgiving. Rude. Unapologetic.

He was determined to fix it. To get rid of this fragile little thing that was tainting his team.

So it began…

The endless training drills. His words harsh as Serena tried to power through without making a comment.

But putting her through those drills just wasn’t enough for him. No. It had to be more.

She, had to be more.

It didn’t matter that he was bigger than her. He didn’t care how big or small she was, how lean or built she was. All he could see, was her eventually lying dead on a dirt ridden floor somewhere because she wasn’t doing enough.

Sparring became more consistent than the drills.

But his words were slowly becoming more venomous each time she ended up on the floor.

“Get the fuck up you worthless little shit!”

And it was those very words that were slowly chipping away at her patience. It was hard enough that he was running her into the ground non stop…but hearing words like that from someone Serena felt very…strongly about was a different pain.

———

“If you can’t even defend yourself from me then you have no fucking place in this team! Get the fuck up!” Simon’s words bark out into the gym, his hand curling around her arm and forcefully pulling her up.

But Serena finally reacted to his bullshit, her hand connected with his face so harshly it let out a loud.

Crack.

The sound echoed around the gym, as loud as the clash of two symbols. A clap of thunder.

“Enough! I’ve fucking had enough!” Serena spoke, her voice escaping her in such a loud manner it cracked ever so slightly.

But he didn’t respond, his head was still turned to one side. Those deep brown orbs side eying her.

“You don’t get to say you’ve had enough.” Simon finally spoke, low and cold in tone as his head slowly turned back to face her. His gaze burning into her own stubborn glare.

“You do not get to stand there and act like you are better than this.” He took a step towards her, the air coming off of him in such a heated manner that Serena instinctively took a step back.

“You think you’ve had enough? Hm? You think you’re good enough? You think you’ve got your shit sorted out? Huh?” Another step forward, she took two steps back.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” A low growl, a tone so deep she almost felt the vibration of it in her chest.

Another step. She took two steps-

She hit the wall. Her chest slightly heaving just to get enough air to her brain. Her gaze carefully locked onto his.

“Do you have any…idea…how stupid you were? Running off like a fucking idiot. Like you know shit.” He snarled, standing so close that Serena’s head was forced to tilt back in order to keep ahold of his gaze.

It was only when the familiar fabric of his glove firmly sat against her throat that Serena realised just how angry he was.

“Do you have any idea how much fear you put into me?” He spoke, his eyes burning into hers so intensely it was as though he was searching her gaze.

“I-it’s not like I fucking planned it okay?” She spat out, defensive in her response but it did nothing to soothe his growing anger.

“You’re too fucking stupid to see that I give a shit whether you live or die, Serena.” He spoke, his fingers briefly digging into the side of her throat.

However, the slight and very brief hitch in her breath almost made his head spin. A heat in the air that had him clenching his jaw in restraint.

“Why can’t you just be a fucking good girl and behave on a god damn mission instead of making me worry, hm?” He spoke, his masked face leaning closer. His words a snarl of anger mixed with an undeniable frustration.

Stemmed from fear.

He knew from the moment he saw her huddled up in Soap’s jacket that it was fear. The sight of her so fragile, so different from what she has always been…it scared him more than he cared to admit.

His head leans forward a little further, forehead dropping against hers as he let out a sharp sigh and closed his eyes. His hand settled around her throat.

“I knew you’d come looking.” She spoke, her words quiet yet they made his eyes fly open.

“M’not going to be there to save you every time you fuck up, Serena.” His words were low, quiet. A grumble of frustration and heat. He felt the warmth pool in his gut at the way she so clearly trusted her life in his hands.

Even now, with his hand against her throat.

He could easily snap her neck, just another life to add to the list of the many he’s already taken in his career.

But instead, he found that his thumb was slowly moving across her skin. A gentle motion that had him quickly realising why he was so scared.

As if he’d been physically struck. He stepped back, his jaw clenching so tight beneath the material of his mask it was actually visible.

“Go back to your room. We’ll continue training tomorrow morning.” He spoke, his words flat and deadpan as if he was forcibly closing himself off from the reality of what he felt.

Thankfully, Serena listened without question, glad she can finally get some rest after the long and viscous cycle of training.

———

2:32am. The clock read as Serena was abruptly awoken by the heavy thudding fist at her door.

She tried to ignore it, shoving her head beneath the colder side of her pillow to block out the noise, but when that familiar voice seeped through the wood she felt the anger bubble up.

“Serena, open the door.”

Him. Again.

She was moving before her half asleep brain could catch up. Throwing the door open as the words spill out of her. Too annoyed to even realised he was completely bare faced in front of her.

“What the fuck do you want now? It’s god knows what time in the god damn morning and you couldn’t wait a couple more hours? Are you fucking serious?! You’ve been running me into the ground non stop for days! I can’t even sleep now is that i-“ Her anger induced rant was forcefully stopped by the harsh press of his lips against her own as he guided her back into the room. His boot coming into firm contact with the door, letting it slam with a rattle.

“Shut the fuck up. Just…shut up.” He spoke, his voice wobbling with the shaky breath he let out against her lips. His hands framing her face with a touch of desperation to his hold. Lips crashing into hers once more as he started guiding her back towards the bed.

One firm hand slides down her side, grabbing her thigh the moment her back hit the sheets with such a sharp grip it earned a choked breath from her lips. The sound swallowed into his hungry kiss.

The muscle of his thigh slipped between her forcefully spread legs, pressing against her cunt firmly as his teeth lightly tug at her bottom lip. Her hips roll up, as if by instinct alone as she grinds her cunt against the rigid muscle of his thigh with a shaky gasp against his mouth.

“Simon-“ “Shut up, Serena.”

She couldn’t get a word in, not after his exploring tongue plunged into the wet heat of her mouth with a low groan that had her cunt clenching around air.

Briefly he pulled away, his lips trailing down any exposed part of her he could find as his every panting breath heated her once cold skin. Firm hands tugging at the sleep shorts until they were absently discarded onto the floor.

Down…down…down…

His hands were already guiding her thighs over his shoulders. Serena’s gaze watching him carefully, incapable of stopping the almost embarrassed sound slipping out of her the moment he buried his nose against the cotton underwear hiding her seeping cunt.

A low groan tumbling out of him, his fingers digging into the plush of her thighs as he eagerly breathed in the scent of her arousal.

“Fuckin’ hell, you smell good.” He spoke, his voice having dropped an octave in which Serena couldn’t help the way her thighs almost twitch at the vibration against her cunt. Earning a low chuckle from the broad man between her legs.

“Gon’ let me see this pretty cunt?”

Serena couldn’t deny him, she should’ve…should’ve been mad at him. Furious in fact. But as his eyes peer up at her from between her legs she finds herself nodding in answer.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Words. Use them. Need to hear a yes.”

“Yes, you can.”

He let out a quiet hum when she verbally agreed, thick fingers hooking under the material and dragging it down before the soaked cotton joined her shorts on the floor.

His eyes lock onto her pussy, hands sliding back up her legs until they reach her hips. Settling there as if he knew he’d have to keep her pinned down.

“You gon’a be good for me?” His words come out in a quiet and low grumble against her thigh, briefly pressing open mouthed kisses against the skin. His eyes drifting up to her face.

“Gimme a reason t’be good.” She responded, her answer a breathless whisper into the darkened room.

Brat.

His lips trail down, his breath ghosting along her inner thigh before he dragged his tongue through her folds in one long and slow swipe. One hand splaying out on her abdomen as the other held her hip.

But that first taste, it had him yearning.

It takes him no time to find her clit, guided by the slight choked huff of breath she let out. His tongue circling the tiny nub in a slow and bordering on teasing motion.

Again…and again…and again.

But even his restraint could only last so long and she tasted so good.

Her hips buck up against his grip the moment his tongue drags down just to bury into her tight hole. His grip tightening to keep her still as his eyes dart up to her face. Letting out a low groan into her cunt as the flushed face staring back at him.

He was relentless, each little sound tumbling from her lips fuelling him until he couldn’t help but bring his tongue back to her neglected clit just to bury two fingers into her weeping hole. Serena’s head falling back against the pillow as her hand buried into his hair.

His fingers curl, like a consistent repeated pattern that had her squirming beneath him.

Thrust, curl. Thrust, curl.

“S-stop….stop…” She gasped out, the words snapping his attention to her immediately as his eyes stare at her. His hand ceasing and his head moving back slightly.

“Y’alright? What’s wrong?” He spoke, his voice low but holding an edge of concern that softened her slightly.

“No it’s…m’fine I just…I wanna cum with you.” She mumbled, brows furrowing in a brief embarrassment to her own words. But they earned a very rare smirk on his face.

“What made you think I ain’t gonna make you cum more than once?” He spoke, raising an eyebrow at her as he curled his fingers into that spongy spot once more.

“Ah-I…wanna cum on your cock…please.” Serena choked out, her eyes finding his again with a little more confidence.

Reluctantly, he pulled his fingers from the warmth of her weeping cunt. Sliding them between his lips and cleaning them off before crawling his way up to her.

“Yeah? Wanna make a pretty little mess on my cock? That it?” He spoke, his tone almost mocking. His hands sliding the tank top she wore up and over her head before discarding it. Firm hands finding her tits as his face buried into the crook of her neck. Tugging and pinching her nipples before dragging his thumb against the sensitive surface.

“Please…” She whispers, a quiet plea that had him immediately sinking his teeth into her skin. Leaving a dark hickey against her throat. A reminder.

But once he got started…it was a little hard for him to stop. Sucking deep and dark marks into her skin like he was painting a masterpiece. Earning little whines out of her with every bite.

His free hand slides down, shifting his sweatpants down just enough to give him space to free his cock. Biting and sucking at her skin as he slides the tip through her folds. Repeating the motion a few times before slowly pushing into her small hole with a low hitch in his breath.

His hand guided her thigh up and up until her leg rested over his shoulder. Sinking so deep into her cunt he could feel his tip kissing her cervix.

“Fuck you feel so good. Such a perfect little cunt.” He spoke, his words low yet coming out surprisingly whiny. Dragging his hips back in a slow movement before slamming them forward. Earning a broken moan from her lips. Repeating the motion with a low grunt tumbling out of him every time his cock sinks back into her tight heat.

“S’too deep.” She choked out, her thigh trembling against him as her eyes flutter and roll.

“You can take it. You’re being so good for me, you can take it.” He spoke, a low grumble paired with a sharp thrust that had her hand pressing against his abs. Nails digging deliciously into his skin.

He relishes in the sight, seeing her slowly devolve into nothing but a mess of pleasure and sweat as he started picking up the pace. An obscene ‘squelch’ filling the room every time he slams his cock back into her tight cunt. The sound fuelling the fire in his gut.

“S’fuckin’ wet. Y’hear that? Hear her crying for me?” He spoke, giving a sharp thrust to emphasise the filthy sound as Serena nodded almost desperately against the pillow.

“Where did those words go pretty baby? Don’t tell me I fucked you dumb already?” He commented with a low lustful chuckle, his words mocking as he buried his cock into her weeping hole. Bullying it with every harsh thrust.

But she couldn’t answer him. Too caught up in the pleasure to give him anything other than a whine.

The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, paired with his low and harsh breaths and the desperate cries of pleasure it didn’t take long before his every thrust was faltering.

“Fuck m’gon’ cum…shit…need’t pull out” He gasped out, only for Serena to practically drag her nails across his skin in disagreement.

“N-no…no…inside. Cum inside me.” She choked out, the very words making him spiral into his release as he buried his cock as deep as his could. Filling her cunt as she clenched and came around him.

“Shit…s’perfect f’me.” He breathed out, slowly rocking his hips as if desperate to fuck his cum deeper into the fluttering walls of her cunt.

———

Simon had been lying all over her for nearly 30 minutes. He didn’t pull out of her clenching heat, he didn’t speak for a while. His hands slowly trailing over her skin.

“You can’t…scare me like that, Serena.” He spoke against her neck, his hand sliding down her side as he held her close to him.

“I never meant to.” She mutters quietly, her hand having long slipped under his shirt. Fingers tracing idle patterns against his bare skin.

“I…mm. I care ‘bout you.” He mumbles, as if reluctant to admit the words. She knew what he meant. Knew where that fear came from.

“I know.” She whispers softly, her fingers following along his back as she leaned her cheek against his own.

“Promise me. You won’t…act like a fuckin’ idiot again.” He spoke, leaning up so he could meet her gaze properly. Searching her eyes for a single hint of hesitation or dishonesty.

“I promise, Simon.” She mumbles, her hand reaching up and pressing slightly against his cheek as she held his gaze with a deep sincerity in her eyes.

A promise is a promise.

He’ll just have to make sure she makes good on it.

————————————————————————

A/N

Hope you enjoyed, ending is a bit shit but m’never good at those.

[wonders-of-the-cosmos]

What Is This ‘Cosmic Question Mark’ Captured by the James Webb Space Telescope?

The James Webb Space Telescope has captured a spectacular new image of a pair of actively forming stars about 1,470 light-years away. But beneath the breathtaking phenomenon, some viewers noticed a peculiar shape among the backdrop of celestial objects: a glowing question mark. The image quickly went viral on social media, with jokes about its origin ranging from aliens to a glitch in the Matrix.

The object’s color indicates it is either very distant—billions of light-years away—or much closer and obscured by dust. 

The shining question mark represents two galaxies merging. The hooked portion of the shape may be what’s called a tidal tail—a thin, elongated stream of stars and gases that occurs as galaxies interact. 

Credit: NASA

[kinzhae]

Just Want To Talk PT. 2

Part 2 of this story: Part 1

Gojo Satoru

Gojo stood frozen in the middle of the room, his words echoing in his mind. The second the door slammed shut, regret hit him like a tidal wave. He sank onto the couch, running a trembling hand through his hair. He hadn’t meant any of it—not a single word.

He waited an hour. Then two. But you didn’t come back.

Panic set in as he grabbed his phone and dialed your number. It rang and rang, but you didn’t pick up. He called again, and again, his desperation growing with each unanswered call.

Finally, he grabbed his coat and headed out, searching the city for you. When he found you sitting on a park bench, your face buried in your hands, relief washed over him. But when you looked up at him, your tear-streaked face broke his heart all over again.

“Go away, Satoru,” you said, your voice hoarse. “I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you, his usual arrogance nowhere to be seen. “I messed up,” he said, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean it, Y/N. Any of it. I was frustrated, and I took it out on you, and it was wrong. You’re not a burden. You’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

You stared at him, the pain in your chest battling with the sincerity in his voice. “You made me feel worthless, Satoru. Like I didn’t matter to you at all.”

His hands reached for yours, shaking as he held them. “You matter more to me than anything. I just… I don’t know how to do this. To let someone in like this. I’m scared of losing you, and I messed up trying to protect myself.”

Your heart softened slightly at his words, but the pain was still there. “You can’t just push me away every time you’re scared.”

“I know,” he said, his voice breaking. “And I’ll spend every day proving to you that you matter to me. Please, Y/N, give me one more chance.”

You hesitated, but when he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, you let yourself lean into him, the warmth of his embrace finally melting the wall around your heart.

Geto Suguru

Hours passed before Suguru found you, sitting alone on the steps of the temple where you’d spent so many happy moments together. When he approached, you didn’t look up.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” you said softly.

“I almost didn’t,” he admitted, sitting beside you. “But then I realized how much of an idiot I’ve been.”

You turned to him, your tear-streaked face filled with pain. “You called me weak, Suguru. How am I supposed to forgive that?”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said, his voice trembling. “But I need you to know that I didn’t mean it. I’m scared, Y/N. I’m scared of what I’ve become, and I pushed you away because I thought it’d be easier than letting you see me like this.”

“You hurt me,” you said, your voice breaking.

“And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” he replied, his voice filled with sincerity. “You’re the only light I have left, Y/N. Please don’t let me lose you.”

You hesitated, but as he reached for your hand, his grip gentle and desperate, you allowed yourself to believe him, leaning into his embrace as he held you tightly.

Nanami Kento

Nanami worked late into the night, the weight of his words gnawing at the back of his mind. He told himself he’d said what needed to be said, but as the hours passed, guilt began to creep in. When he finally went to bed, he found your side of the bed empty.

Panic set in as he searched the apartment, only to find you curled up on the couch, your face streaked with dried tears.

He crouched beside you, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Y/N,” he said softly, his voice filled with regret.

You stirred, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice still hoarse from crying. The exhaustion in your tone cut through him like a knife.

“I should be asking you that,” Nanami replied, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He sat beside you on the couch, looking at you with a mixture of guilt and sorrow. “I shouldn’t have said what I said earlier. I’ve been so caught up in everything that I didn’t even stop to think about how you were feeling.”

You stared at him for a long moment, the weight of his words lingering in the air between you. “You told me I was overthinking, that I was being insecure. But Kento… it’s not insecurity. I just want to feel like I matter to you. I’m not asking for you to drop everything for me, but… I need to know I’m important too.”

Nanami let out a shaky breath, his fingers gently brushing your arm. “You are important to me. I’m just… bad at expressing it. I’ve always been this way, focused on work, trying to make sure everything is in order. But I realize now that I’ve been neglecting the one thing that matters most.”

You shifted slightly, meeting his gaze. “What’s that?”

“You,” he whispered. “I’ve been so focused on my responsibilities that I’ve been blind to what you need from me. I’m sorry, Y/N. I was wrong, and I want to make it right. I don’t want to lose you over my own shortcomings.”

Your heart softened at his admission, but the hurt was still there, lingering. “I need time, Kento. You can’t just brush this off. You need to show me, not just tell me.”

He nodded, the sincerity in his eyes unmistakable. “I will. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that I don’t take you for granted.”

He pulled you into his arms, gently resting his chin on top of your head. “I know I’ve been distant. But I promise, I’ll try harder. I won’t let you feel this way again.”

The warmth of his embrace was comforting, but the scar from his words still burned deep inside you. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to trust that things could change.

For now, you let yourself rest in his arms, knowing that he was willing to try. But in the back of your mind, you knew that actions spoke louder than words.

Choso

Choso stood there, his eyes filled with an emotional turmoil that he struggled to control. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”

“Then tell me,” you said gently, taking a step toward him. “Don’t shut me out. Let me in, Choso. I’m not going anywhere.”

The raw vulnerability in your voice cracked the wall he had so carefully built around himself. His breath hitched as he looked at you, the weight of his inner battle tearing him apart.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t deserve anyone. Not after everything I’ve done.”

You shook your head, reaching for his hand. “Choso, I don’t care about what you think you deserve. I care about you. I love you, and I’m not going to walk away because you think you’re too broken.”

He looked down at your hand in his, his throat tight with emotion. Slowly, he pulled you into an embrace, burying his face in your shoulder as he finally let his tears fall.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice thick with regret. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean to push you away. I’m just so scared of dragging you down with me.”

You held him tightly, running your fingers through his hair. “I’m here, Choso. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

In that moment, as he clung to you, you knew that while the pain wasn’t gone, there was hope for healing. You would both find your way back to each other. Slowly, but surely.

Ryomen Sukuna

Sukuna didn’t follow you immediately. He stayed on his throne, his expression unchanging, but the empty room suddenly felt heavier than usual. He told himself it didn’t matter, that you’d come back like you always did. But as the hours dragged on and the sound of your footsteps never returned, something began to stir inside him—a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to name.

By the time he went looking for you, the sun had long since set. He found you in the palace garden, sitting on a cold stone bench with your knees pulled to your chest. Your cloak was wrapped tightly around you, but it wasn’t enough to hide the way your body trembled, either from the cold or from the weight of your grief.

For a long moment, he just stood there, watching you. You didn’t look up. Maybe you knew he was there, or maybe you were too lost in your thoughts to notice.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Still sulking, I see.”

Your head shot up, your tear-streaked face glaring at him with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. “Go away, Sukuna.”

He ignored your words, stepping closer until he was standing directly in front of you. “You’ve been out here for hours. Are you trying to freeze to death?”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Why do you care? I’m just a ‘distraction,’ remember?”

His jaw clenched, the faintest flicker of regret crossing his face. “I… misspoke.”

“Misspoke?” you repeated, standing up abruptly. Your voice cracked as the tears came rushing back. “You told me I was nothing, Sukuna! That I was weak and pathetic! How do you misspeak that?”

He flinched at the raw pain in your voice, his usual arrogance faltering. “I said those things because I’m a fool,” he admitted, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Because I don’t know how to handle this—how to handle you. You make me feel things I don’t understand, and it terrifies me.”

You stared at him, your anger mingling with confusion. “And you thought hurting me was the answer?”

“I thought it would push you away,” he admitted, his voice filled with rare vulnerability. “That it would be easier if you hated me. But instead, all I’ve done is hurt the one person who matters most to me.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the raw sincerity in his tone breaking through the walls you had built around your heart. “You broke me, Sukuna,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

He stepped closer, his crimson eyes locking onto yours. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to earn it. I can’t lose you, Y/N. You’re the only thing keeping me from becoming the monster everyone says I am.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Slowly, hesitantly, you let him pull you into his arms, his hold tight and protective. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you weren’t alone.

[dream-world-universe]

High Tides, Saint-Malo, France: Twice a year, the tides of Equinoxe attract crowds to Saint-Malo. In Saint-Malo, the tidal range, which is the difference between the water level at low tide and high tide, reaches an average of 12 metres and sometimes 14 metres during the highest tides... Saint-Malo is a historic French port in Ille-et-Vilaine, Brittany. The walled city on the English Channel coast had a long history of piracy, earning much wealth from local extortion and overseas adventures. In 1944, the Allies heavily bombed Saint-Malo. Wikipedia