mysticmorning1

Latest Posts by mysticmorning1

I actually read this 4 nights ago... but I lost it... and now I found it again

⧽ ⠀ ── ⠀ 𝗦𝗔𝗙𝗘𝗧𝗬 𝗡𝗘𝗧 ﹕ Modern!Marcus Acacius Fic

PAIRING: Sugar Daddy!Marcus Acacius x BIWOC!Sugar Baby!Reader

SERIES SUMMARY: Marcus Acacius finds more than what he expected on a sugar dating app.

SERIES TAGS: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Modern AU. Sugar daddy Marcus Acacius/Sugar baby reader. Age gap [Marcus is 50/reader is 25+]. SMUT. Developing relationship. Reader is explicitly described as a curvy woman of color: darker skin tone, curly hair texture, etc. Everyone is still encouraged to read! Reader is afab and able bodied. Marcus is recently divorced. Marcus comes from old money and is a businessman. Written by BIWOC for BIWOC. <3

A/N: This is for the real ones that get it. If you get it, come and get y’all juice. If you don’t TURN THE OTHER WAY! 🙂‍↕️ Dedicated to all the BIWOC that hardly ever see themselves in stories like this where they are desired by a sexy older man that’s filthy rich. #DEITAKEOVER!

⧽ I. — PART ONE ⧽ II. — PART TWO (tba)

↳ more coming soon…

©️ @ovaryacted & @gothcsz 2025. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

Honey you just wrote some money

the babysitter

pairing: clint flood x f! reader

summary: You’ve been babysitting Clint's daughter for months. You didn’t expect Clint to want you. But when your boyfriend doesn’t show, Clint makes his move and makes sure you’ll never waste your time on little boys again.

word count - ~3.2k

rating - E

content - age gap (mid twenties to early thirties reader, clint is in his 50s), story is set in the 80s like the movie, possessive clint, mild violence, explicit smut, p in v sex, fingering, creampie

author's note - I watched Freaky Tales and got horny. Shocking I know. I wrote this super quick and wasn't beta'd, I just needed to get it out lolllllll

The Goonies plays low on the TV, the hum of the VCR mixing with the chirp of cicadas through the cracked windows of an East Oakland summer. The heat is thick, clinging to your skin like honey, curling around your bare legs where your sundress rides up as you sit cross-legged on the carpet. You shift a little, tugging the fabric down instinctively, but it doesn’t help much. The dress is thin, soft, pale. No bra — it’s too damn hot for that — and you can feel every movement, every sway, every time the fan shifts direction.

Mae hums beside you, tongue poked out as she concentrates on the last few pieces of the puzzle. She’s sweet, bright, easy company and you adore her. Babysitting started as a way to fill your nights, but somewhere along the way, it became something else. Familiar. Steady. Important.

Your fingers move absentmindedly across the puzzle pieces, but your mind isn’t fully there.

You keep glancing at the phone.

Jason said he’d pick you up after Clint got back. Some burger place he liked across town, nothing fancy. You’d worn the dress because he said you looked good in it once. He’s not a bad guy, not really. Just… scattered. Fast car, fast words, slow follow-through.

You never asked for much. You figured that made it easier.

But you’ve been sitting here a while now, and the phone’s still quiet. Your chest tugs. You hate that you feel like this, embarrassed and exposed before the night’s even started.

And then you feel it.

That presence. That warmth behind you.

You turn slightly and see Clint in the doorway.

You didn’t hear him come in.

He’s standing there with a beer in one hand, the other crossed over his chest, watching you in that quiet way he does, eyes dark, unreadable. You offer him a small smile, one that’s more breath than joy, but it’s something.

“Hey,” you say softly.

Clint nods once. “You headin’ out after?”

“Yeah. Kind of a date.”

You brush your palms along your thighs, smoothing down fabric that won’t stay where it’s supposed to. Glance at the phone again like that might make it ring.

“Jason’s picking me up after you get back. Supposed to go get something to eat.”

You try to keep it casual, but it lands like an apology. Even you hear it.

Clint doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps watching you with that same quiet intensity. You always thought he was handsome, in a gruff, unapproachable way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, hands that always look like they’ve been busy doing something that matters. There’s something about the way he moves, economical, restrained, that makes you feel small and seen all at once.

He intimidates you. And maybe that’s part of why you keep coming back.

Clint leans in the doorway, beer in hand, trying not to let his face show what his chest is doing.

Jason Delaney.

Of all the cocky little pricks to get her attention.

Clint’s jaw ticks as he watches her, all bare legs and glossed lips, in that soft dress that clings every time she shifts. No bra. He knows. He noticed the moment she sat down. And now she’s waiting around for a kid who sells dime bags out of his Camaro and forgets birthdays unless they come with head.

And she’s dressed up for him.

If that dumbass leaves her waitin’...

Clint’s eyes flick to Mae, still humming softly, placing the last piece of the puzzle. She’s happy. Relaxed. Unbothered by the tension quietly humming through the room.

But he sees the way you rub her back, gentle, instinctive, maternal. Like she’s yours. Like this house is yours.

She doesn’t just watch my kid. She cares for her. Like I would. Better than I ever could.

His chest tightens with it, not jealousy, not exactly. Just something close. Something primal.

He sets the beer in the sink. Grabs his keys. Shrugs into his leather jacket, fingers catching briefly on the cuff before he turns back.

“You good with her till 9?”

“Always,” you say with a smile. “We’re gonna finish the puzzle and maybe throw The Little Mermaid back on.”

Your laugh is soft. Clint feels it somewhere low in his stomach.

“She likes what she likes,” he says.

You tilt your head, that glint in your eye returning. “So do I.”

He freezes for a beat too long.

She’s flirting and don’t even realize it. Or maybe she does.

His eyes drag from your mouth down to the hem of your dress, where it’s bunched up around the top of your thigh. And then back to the kitchen phone. Still quiet. Still nothing.

She’s not just sweet. She knows what she’s doin’. Maybe not all the way. But enough. Enough to make me wanna keep her from every punk who thinks she’s just something to waste time on.

She’s not.

She’s made for slow mornings. For a hand resting on her leg while the coffee brews. For nights that end with someone staying.

And he wants that. Wants her.

But tonight, tonight he’s got one job.

His voice is low when it comes. Measured. Rough.

“Don’t wait outside alone. And don’t wait too long if he don’t show.”

He leaves without waiting for a reply.

And when the door shuts, she’s still sitting there, same soft dress, same sweet smile dimmed a little at the edges.

Mae hums. The puzzle’s finished. The movie rolls on.

And Clint drives into the night, already thinking about whether he’ll see that rusted-out Camaro in the driveway when he gets back, and what he’s going to do if he doesn’t.

The truck rumbles to life, but Clint doesn’t turn the radio on.

Doesn’t need the noise.

He drives in silence, the kind that settles low in his chest like smoke, thick and waiting. He turns down 35th to meet a client, tires crunching over loose gravel as the street narrows. The sun’s dipping low now, making the liquor store glow burnt orange at the edges. He pulls into the side lot slow, deliberate, parking just far enough to watch.

But instead of his client, he sees someone else. 

Jason Delaney, leaning on the hood of that rust-red Camaro like he’s posing for a fuckin’ magazine. Cigarette in hand, one boot kicked up behind him, laughing like the world owes him something. He’s not alone. That girl from the gas station, tight jeans, big earrings, is all over him. Twirling her hair, giggling, running a hand over his chest.

Clint watches, unmoving. Blank.

His jaw tightens when Jason leans in and says something low in her ear, probably some bullshit pickup line that he thinks sounds cool. Clint’s heard his type too many times. Bragging when he should be grateful.  

By the time Jason slips behind the store to light another smoke, Clint’s already out of the truck.

He moves fast. Controlled. Steps crunch over broken glass and cigarette butts as he rounds the corner.

Jason doesn’t hear him coming,  not until Clint grabs him by the collar and slams him hard against the wall. Brick to shoulder. His head snaps back, eyes wide, breath caught.

Clint leans in, voice low. Cold.

“That girl you left sittin’ on my couch tonight?” he says, calm as a gun cocking. “She ain’t yours to fuck with.”

Jason chokes on the air. “What the—who the fuck—”

Clint doesn’t give him the chance.

SNAP.

Two fingers. Fast. Clean. The sound echoes like a firecracker in the alley.

Jason howls, folding forward instinctively, clutching his hand like it might fall off.

Clint doesn’t blink.

“Next time,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that the kid can smell the Marlboro on his breath, “I won’t leave your hands intact.”

He lets him drop, a crumpled heap against the bricks, bleeding, whimpering, gasping between curses. Clint turns without another word. Doesn’t look back.

Some men think sweetness makes a girl small. Disposable.

Clint knows better.

You don’t leave a girl like her waiting. You don’t make her doubt herself. 

Not while he’s breathing.

The side door creaks open at exactly 8:56 PM.

You barely register it at first. Just the sound of boots on cracked tile, steady and familiar. The smell of wood polish, faint cigarette smoke, and something else, maybe shampoo from Mae’s bubble bath or the air freshener Clint keeps meaning to replace. It all blends into the background, the way it always does here. Safe. Familiar.

You keep your eyes on the TV, even though you’re not really watching it anymore.

The Little Mermaid is replaying again. Ariel’s silhouette washes over your bare shoulder in flickers of blue and purple light. Your sundress sticks slightly to your thighs where the heat and the waiting have soaked in. You hadn’t planned on staying this long. You hadn’t planned on crying either.

But here you are.

Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded. Shoes kicked off and tucked under the couch hours ago.

You feel stupid.

Stupid for the dress. For the soft perfume you picked out. For brushing your hair and glossing your lips like any of it mattered. No bra. A little hope. And a lot of waiting. Stupid for believing Jason when he said he’d come. For thinking this time he’d show up when he said he would. That he’d see you sitting here and actually feel something.

Your chest tightens again. Not a fresh wave of sadness, just the quiet ache of realizing you let yourself hope and hope betrayed you.

Again.

You almost don’t notice Clint until you hear the sharp clink of keys on the counter.

He moves through the house like gravity. Controlled. Certain. Heavy in a way that makes your heart stutter.

You look up, startled, like you’d forgotten anyone else existed in the world.

He’s standing by the doorway now, pulling off that worn black leather jacket he always throws on like armor. His jaw is tight, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath the sleeves of his gray tee. His knuckles are scraped. His shoulders look even broader than usual, like something’s still sitting on them.

Clint Flood is not a soft man. He’s not delicate or particularly gentle, but there’s something about the way he moves, the way he sees you, that makes you feel like maybe you’re not completely invisible.

Your voice cracks before it even forms fully.

“Guess I overdressed for disappointment.”

You try to laugh. It comes out thin and watery. You wipe under one eye with your knuckle before he can look too long.

“He didn’t show,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Probably forgot.”

You say it like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t sting. But it does.

Clint walks toward you, slow and deliberate. Each step like a question he’s already answered for himself. He lowers himself onto the couch beside you, not too close, just enough to make the cushion dip beneath his weight.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s too composed. Quiet in a way that makes your pulse pick up. His thighs are wide apart, forearms resting heavy on his knees. His hand is loose, relaxed, but you notice the tension in it anyway.

There’s blood on the edge of one knuckle.

And then he says it, voice low, calm, but firm enough that it still makes your spine straighten.

“He’s not gonna bother you again.”

Your head snaps toward him.

You study his face, that hardened brow, the set of his mouth, the storm in his eyes. Your heart stutters.

“What do you mean?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just shake your entire world loose with six words.

“Saw him,” he says. “He was busy.”

A pause. Barely a breath.

“I made sure he got the message.”

You go completely still.

Not because you don’t know what that means, you do, but because of how easy he says it.

“Clint…” Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “What did you do?”

He turns his head now. Meets your eyes without flinching.

“What needed doing.”

You stare at him. There’s heat rising in your chest now, not panic, not fear, but something else entirely.

“Why?” you ask, and your voice shakes. “Why would you… why would you even care?”

He exhales through his nose. His fingers rub slowly over his palm, like he’s grounding himself.

“Because I care.”

The words land heavy between you, heavier than anything Jason ever said. He doesn’t say it like he’s trying to earn anything from you. Doesn’t say it to be sweet.

He says it because it’s true.

Clint leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes straight ahead.

“Because I see the way you get treated, and it makes me fucking sick.”

You don’t speak. Can’t.

“You walk in here week after week,” he continues, voice lower now but no less steady. “Taking care of my kid like she’s yours. Laughing like you don’t got pain in you. Being good. Good to people who don’t see what they’ve got.”

Your throat tightens. Your chest aches.

“And that bastard, that boy, gets your time like he earned it.”

You blink quickly. Your bottom lip trembles. You want to say something, but your breath is caught in your chest.

Because he’s right.

And somehow, he saw you when the person you were waiting on didn’t even bother to try.

You swallow hard.

Your voice is barely a whisper when you ask:

“You think you could give me more?”

The air in the room shifts. Grows thicker.

Clint turns to look at you, really look.

His gaze drops to your mouth. The curve of your cheek. Your bare shoulders. The soft cotton of your sundress where it’s still bunched high on your thighs. Your feet tucked up beneath you, vulnerable, curled in like you’re trying to disappear.

Something passes behind his eyes. Something quiet and unspoken.

And in that moment, you realize it.

You’ve been wanting him this whole time.

Not in some loud, dramatic way. But in the quiet way your eyes always flicked toward him when he walked through the door. The way you noticed the veins in his hands when he wiped down the counter. The way your heart picked up when he smiled at Mae like she was the only thing that mattered.

You’ve been wanting someone steady. Someone who shows up.

And Clint Flood, scraped knuckles, leather jacket, rough voice, and all, just did.

You don’t know who moves first.

But suddenly, everything’s changed.

The line between you and him, whatever it was, no longer exists.

It starts with the kiss.

Clint leans in slow, like he’s giving you every chance to stop him.

You don’t.

Your lips meet his, and it’s heat right away. His mouth is rough and warm, kissing you deep and steady. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, the other gripping your thigh tight enough that you feel it in your bones. You let him pull you closer, knees to either side of his leg, your sundress bunched high on your hips. The friction makes you gasp.

His tongue licks into your mouth with a low sound in his throat, and you moan, hips shifting, grinding just barely against his thigh.

You’ve never wanted anyone like this. Never felt wanted like this.

Your fingers curl around his wrist and guide his hand beneath your dress.

“Touch me.”

He groans like it physically hurts him not to have done it sooner.

His fingers slide up, finding the edge of your panties, dragging them to the side with practiced ease. His middle finger runs through your folds, slow and slick, and his jaw clenches when he feels how wet you already are.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “You were sittin’ on my couch like this?”

You gasp when he slides two fingers into you without warning, thick and steady, pushing deep. He curls them just right and your hips jerk forward. The wet sounds fill the room, obscene and desperate.

“Listen to that,” Clint whispers. “You’re soaked.”

He fingers you slowly, deliberately, drawing it out while his thumb circles your clit, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. The stretch of his fingers is intense, thick knuckles dragging in and out, his palm heavy against your cunt. You can feel yourself clench around him, the buildup already tight in your gut.

“You gonna come like this?” he asks, voice hot in your ear. “Just from my fingers?”

You nod, breath caught.

“That's right. Let me feel it.”

You break with a soft cry, thighs trembling around his hand. He doesn’t stop until you’re breathless and twitching, and even then he keeps them inside you for a moment, like he doesn’t want to leave just yet.

When he finally pulls his fingers free, he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“Bedroom,” you breathe.

He lifts you up without hesitation, arms strong around your waist, and carries you down the hall. You cling to him, thighs still slick and trembling.

He lays you down gently on the bed. You reach for the hem of your dress, but he stops you with a shake of his head.

“I’m takin’ this off,” Clint says. “I want to see you.”

You sit up slowly as he kneels in front of you, hands dragging up your thighs. He pushes the fabric of your dress up and over your head, tossing it to the side. His eyes move over your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

He pulls your panties off slowly, watching the way the wet cotton clings before slipping free. His voice is quiet, but thick with something rougher.

“Been dreamin’ about this.”

He moves closer, mouth brushing your knee, your thigh, your hip. When you reach for him, pulling him in by the collar of his shirt, he finally strips it off. His chest is solid, thick with muscle, hair dusting down to his waistband.

You palm over the bulge in his jeans and he groans into your skin.

You look up at him, flushed and needy.

“Clint. Please.”

He unbuckles his belt with slow, deliberate movements, and when his cock springs free, your breath catches.

He’s big. Thick. Long. Heavy against his hand as he strokes himself once, then twice, just to see the way you look at it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You like that?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Gonna stretch you real good, sweetheart.”

He kisses you again as he settles between your thighs, not hurried, not fumbling. He lines himself up, dragging the tip through your slick before pressing in slow. Inch by inch. You gasp at the stretch, your walls tightening around him.

“Fuck,” he grits out, eyes fluttering shut. “So tight.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt.

Clint doesn’t move at first. He holds himself there, letting you feel all of him, letting you catch your breath.

When he does start to thrust, it’s slow at first, deep and measured, each one pressing right against that spot inside that makes you moan into his mouth. He cups your thigh and pushes it higher, opening you wider.

“This is mine now,” he whispers. “You understand me?”

You nod, nails dragging lightly down his back.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe. “All yours.”

That flips something in him.

He groans low, thrusts harder, his hand sliding down to rub your clit as he fucks into you.

You come again with a cry, clenching hard around him, and he doesn’t stop. His hips keep driving into you, deeper, rougher, chasing his own edge now.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Wanna come so deep you feel it all night.”

You pull him in tighter, wrapping your legs around him.

“Do it,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clint grunts, low and guttural, and pushes deep one last time as he spills into you, thick and hot, hips jerking with each pulse. You feel it flood you, the warmth between your thighs unmistakable.

He collapses against you, chest heaving, one hand cradling your jaw as he presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

Neither of you speak for a moment. Just the sound of your breathing, the creak of the mattress, the fan in the hallway spinning slow.

Eventually, Clint pulls out gently and reaches for the towel on the dresser, wiping between your legs with soft care. He doesn't rush. Doesn’t say a word about it. Just takes care of you like it’s something he’s always meant to do.

He tosses the towel aside, then pulls the blanket up and lifts you against his chest.

You settle there, warm and exhausted, your head on his shoulder, one arm draped across his chest.

His fingers trace slow circles into your hip.

“You stayin’ tonight?” he murmurs.

You nod without opening your eyes.

“Good,” he says. “That’s real good.”

He doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t leave space between you.

And as sleep starts to settle in, you realize it’s the first time in a long time someone followed through.

You feel safe. Seen. Wanted.

And Clint Flood holds you like he’s not letting go.

Not now. Not ever.

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Perfect! I needed that laugh

my friend at school said his uncle’s brother works at Flight Rising, and you can find the wind ancient under the truck in Aergate

bear my weight {a joel miller oneshot}

Pairing: Boston Era! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: You've been keeping it a secret, but one fateful day out on a run exposes it- a disability carried over from before the Outbreak. You brace for the abandonment you're sure will follow since Joel Miller isn't known to be the most accommodating.

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: canon compliant language, canon compliant violence, brief description of injuries, blood, scar tissue, argumentative language, joel raises his voice, tess sees all, reader has a disability, reader has mobility issues, reader has a nickname that joel uses once but no official name, lil time skip, kissing, teasing, some banter, super tame one y'all

A/N: just a thing that's been sitting in my drafts for nearly a year. staring at the document for my paper and losing focus is a part of school, no?

It's quiet, in the aftermath of the threat being taken care of.

“What the fuck is your problem, you said you knew how to handle yourself!” Joel’s broad frame pivots as he takes in the now calm setting. Right in the middle of what was once a courtyard, debris and wreckage everywhere from a bomb dropped decades ago. It was supposed to be a simple exploration run for more supplies outside the zone. But clickers and runners have a way of throwing everything into a frenzy.

When you don’t respond, eyes locked on your throbbing leg, it’s when the man huffs and tries to get a gather of where you two ended up in relation to where you had been and where you needed to go. His low grumbles of whatever he’s saying are barely given any life- underneath his breath as he tries to figure it out.

You leave him to it, completely prepared to be left behind once he figures it out. Sighing, you grit your teeth and take the knife you had used to take down the last runner that chased after you and cut the now useless denim from your jeans where it’s stained with blood. It’s not helping to conceal anymore, wrapped around plastic and outdated technology, the blood slippery on your fingers and saturating the fabric even as you untangle it from around your leg.

Joel turns, prepared to fire off more insults at your lack of action if the twist of his open mouth is any indication but he stills when he sees you. You’re still on the ground, though you had managed to move into a seated position, your left leg bent at the knee as you lean forward to roll up what remains of your cut pantleg on the right. It exposes the aged prosthetic no longer secured to the stump of your leg.

Fingers inspecting the broken clasps that had once connected the artificial limb to the scared and rounded edge of your skin just above your knee. The piece of the fabric you normally keep tight over it is torn from the same jutting rebar that had caught your leg and caused you to fall. You sighed, shoulders slumping as you feel the hard gaze of the angry man on you.

The jagged slice into your skin is red and angry, mirroring how you feel about the whole fucked up scene.

He only watches in silence, jaw ticking and face frowning when you chance a blank look up at him

Silence and a long moment pass, him watching as you just sit there and stare down at the issue with hard eyes.

“You can leave now, since I’m such a waste of a partner.” You don’t bother to look up, fingers reaching for the knife holstered on the back of your hip. You use it to cut the once protective wrap for the end of your leg and tie the strip of fabric around the stump to ease the spots of blood bubbling up along the tear in your skin. “Everyone leaves me behind when they find out, wouldn’t hold it against you if you did too.”

“Roni…” His voice is low, but it’s hollow compared to the anger fueling him just moments ago.   

“I said leave!” You head jerks up, eyes meeting his and you can see the air leave his lungs in a surprised huff, though he schools his expression from you as quickly as it flickers. That same hard stare, reminiscent of the spaced out one you often see on him as he’s trekking alongside you on runs and walking alongside you in the crowded streets of the QZ. Seeing everything differently with the new realization. The way you often trailed behind him, and Tess if she’s with you both. The way you tended to rub at your knee whenever you stood in line for various rations, the way you tended to bear most of your weight on your left side that he had thought was due to similar backpain he experienced.

You manage to lift yourself into a standing position, leaning on the same chunk of exploded concrete that had taken you down. Wobbling slightly at the imbalance of leaning down to pick up the now useless prosthetic. The metal and leather clasps clink together as you lift it up to inspect it closer. “Just go.”

But he doesn’t. He simply takes the ruined thing from your hands and fits it into the pack slung over his shoulders. His face tightens when you flinch at his reaching hands, fear of his known brutality and violence finally landing on you. He pauses, eyes shifting as he takes in the trembles of your body, the way you clench your eyes shut and bring up your arms to shield your face from a hit that he never even thinks of making.

It speaks volumes, the gentle way he reaches for them once again to lower them, how he ducks his head and grips your chin to turn your face to him. All the breath in your lungs punches out, the flinch of your dirt smeared face almost a painful stab in the middle of his chest.

“I ain’t gonna leave you out here.” The surety of his words has you opening your eyes and he’s pinning you with a look you’ve only ever seen aimed at Tess before. The complete dedication he has for keeping her alive is now focused on you, stalling your next breath.

It takes a moment to figure out the best way for him to support your weight and carry you. But you both figure it out, hands hovering over your shoulders or waist to help you traverse the ladders and jumps back into the zone through discovered and kept secret pathways.

-

He lingers on the feel of your fingers and hands gripping him, long into the night once back in the relative safety of the apartment. Tess doesn’t say anything when Joel retrieves the prosthetic from his bag long after you’ve fallen asleep on your bed. The small thing tucked into the opposite side of the cramped space that leads to the bathroom. She simply pats a hand on his shoulder, watching the quiet, determined way he begins to look it over.

From that moment on, they’re both sure to look for any compression material they can, for baby powder or any lotion that they come across. For olive oil or anything that can act as a lubricant for your repaired support, to prevent it from the hinges catching or the materials to creak and give away your position while out beyond the walls. For the painkillers they know you need even if you don't ask for them.

The restless nights you tried to hide from them now act as a siren call fashioned for him. Joel rousing should your sheets rustle in the middle of the night or the phantom pain of a limb you now only possess half of becomes too much, the rattle of the pills against each other as you reach for one pulling him from his sleep.

She doubts he even realizes that his hands twitch every time you go to scale a ladder or make a jump, stop to rub at where that unavoidable pinch occurs over your skin- but she clocks it. Can see how it will all play out if given time. His need to protect and fuel to fight encompassing you just as it did her all those years ago.

Your determination to keep up as you always have not shocking, though they do tend to keep a closer eye on you.

Joel nearly loses it one day, hollering and berating your lack of caution when you all found yourselves trapped in a building, the second way out collapsed and blocked. Without thinking or even relaying the thought to them, you use the oil kept in your pocket and a lighter as a defense against the stalkers that hone in on your group in the dark. Your just as loud argument is that it the only thing you could think of that wouldn’t have drawn more of them shutting up the older man.

It's only because he didn’t think of it, think of the way to get you two safely out of the spot he had cornered you all in. Insistence on just one more block, one more spot- guilt making him lash out in anger that you face head on any time it shows.

She tells you to take care of him once she realizes she’s been bitten. Right in front of him and the little figure of a teenager that was meant to be the last job your trio ever worked before seeking something more than the life of a smuggler and outside of the zone for good. Her last words linger in the air just before you and Joel are grabbing harshly at a fighting Ellie, the explosion Tess ensured your safety with echoing in your ears even miles away from the scene.

-

It’s two years later, after many hours, days, weeks, months of traversing the devasted land of what was once sprawling cities and roads that connected them. You’re now settled into a home created between you both and a teenager that was once simple cargo. Connections and emotions tying your little trio together, giving you all a second chance at a life you had once given hope on of finding for yourself. A new prosthetic made of beautifully carved and stained wood supports you, just like the man who had once shifted his harsh demeanor for one of awkward kindship that could only be found in devastating loss.

The underlying care and need to protect allowing for more time, for both of you. For something new and delicate to bud between you, blooming in the time you spent protecting and fighting, defending each other and the girl who sits across from you now on a worn couch.

“Boom, motherfucker.” Her crooked grin brings out one of your own as all three of you look down at the board game set up on the coffee table. “Looks like I win.”

Once the board is folded up, the pieces back in a velvet pouch and the fire left to crackle in the living room do you say anything. The back door closing as the teenager retires to her detached space for the night.

“You let her win.” You put a hand on the threshold to your room, rubbing at your upper thigh to relieve the ache there as the snow and dipped temperature only worsens in the late hour. He watches the way your back flexes with the motion, the steady strength honed in every muscle of your body.

“Figured she would huff and puff if I didn’t.” He’s at the end of the hall, taking his time to shut off all the lamps but one to bathe the space in a sparce, warm light that glows from the window for anyone passing by.

“She thinks you cheat every time,” You taunt, knowing that he doesn’t really but riling him up all the same over the small things that have become a part of an easier life. “Something about you being too cautious to spend your fake millions.”

“Only thing I’m cautious of is messin’ things up with you.” And suddenly all the playfulness leaks out of you, the air growing charged as he gives voice to the quiet thing between you both. You close your eyes in a long blink, the presence of him behind you sparking something deep in your chest. He’s always there, always looking out for you as you do for him. This thing growing in the time you’ve spent together.

“The only way you could mess things up with me is if you take any more goddamn time working up the nerve to kiss me, Miller.” You tilt your head toward him as you turn around and the light seeping into the small hallway from behind him reveals the curve of your upturned lips.

“Fuckin’ impatient.” He closes the gap in two long strides, pressing you back into the wall beside your door and capturing your mouth with his.

Can I see them?

re; struggling to sell fodder anon: YES. ive had dragons priced at fodder floor since DECEMBER. and they get relisted every 3 days. Someone only just now bought one of them. are we cursed

.

Today's my birthday!! YAY!! (I'm not really that excited.)

Anyway I spent some treasure and I spent some gems and I hatched one egg

Said egg and her plans (Flaxen, Cerise, Robin). I'm addicted to Dark eyes. Forgive me, please.

Here's a hatchling I kept from a pair that throws beautifully

2 XXXs that I bought for no reason

And 2 randoms I also got for no reason

(The 2 Gaolers where bought yesterday, and the Wildclaw and Mirror where gotten on the 23rd, I just bought them with the excuse of them being birthday presents to myself)

Why did I do this?

I named him this

Flight Rising

MysticMorning's dragon Nuckelavee

Breed, raise, and train dragons on Flight Rising!

Post that mini fiction, please

Ok ok ok! Going off with that comic of Miko laughing so hard it worries Ratchet. Just imagine if one of the kids got the Hiccups. Like I’m sure Ratchet would freak and panic as the kids just keeps hiccuping doing the usual tricks we all know to rid of them and it just worries Ratchet to no end. haha I’ve always pictured this when I was Roleplaying with my Friends and Ratchet became the Adoptive dad and just freaks over the smallest of things and details that our human bodies does. haha

Potential Transformers: Prime spoilers ahead!

Oh the number of ideas I have for worried Ratchet. Remember that one time Raf was zapped by that Energon thing and got really sick? And Ratchet did nothing at first because he didn’t know anything about Human bodies and how they worked?

WELL, My idea is he felt like absolute scrap after that, It reminded him of Bumblebee and how he couldn’t fix his voice box. He just felt awful about it. A child almost died on Ratchet’s watch that day. A family almost lost one their members that day. So many people nearly lost a friend that day. They almost lost one of their team mates that day. Because Ratchet was foolish and didn’t bother to learn anything about their kind. So what did he do? He started researching. 

He just dove right in and started researching all he possibly could about Humans. What bare necessities do they need to live? What are their most important organs? What do certain organs do? What do their bodies do when they “sleep”? What is “sleep”? What does it mean if a human “coughs”? What does it mean if a human “sneezes”? What do you do if a human has a “headache”? What is a “headache”? What is a “stomach ache”? What is a “stomach”? What foods should humans not eat? What do you do if the skin is broken through? What is “blood”? What is “crying”? Is “crying” bad? How do you make a human stop “crying”? How much water does a human need to drink every day? How much food do humans need to eat everyday? What should human children/teens be eating? And much, much more.

Through this he realized that the kids don’t eat good food when they’re at the base. They have a chips and snack cupboard, that is full of junk food. The bots just assumed that this just is what humans eat because the kids never complained or said it was bad for them. But now Ratchet knows. And he isn’t about to let one of them get sick on his watch again.

So he got a fridge and replaced all the junk food with healthy stuff and put fruits and veggies in the fridge with Agent Fowler’s help. At first the kids weren’t happy, but then Optimus explained why the food had been switched and who switched it. After hearing that Ratchet was just worried about them, the kids really lightened up and didn’t complain about the healthy food. I mean, June was happy about it too so.. Also, Miko bugged Ratchet about it for a while like, “So you DO love us! :D”. But Ratchet didn’t comment.

..And.. Optimus told Raf about Ratchets true intentions of learning about humans, and what motivated him to do so. Raf felt bad and talked to Ratchet, telling him it wasn’t his fault. I don’t think Ratchet would’ve cried, if he even can he wouldn’t do it in front of Raf, but it was probably a tender moment.

I actually wrote a mini fic about this but never posted it.

I'm rebloging because I have now adopted this headcannon...

Rebloging just because

A hummingbird thought a man’s orange hat was a flower [x]

I really like the second one. Which is saying a lot because I'm not a fan of the Ghost gene

Or the Fade...

Today's hatches.

This... this is cool 😎

Fuchsia/Wine/Grapefruit

Well this was entertaining

Me, refusing to leave tumblr: sir, this is my emotional support hellsite

That would be great !!!!

Yknow with the whole new language coming up for Badlands, I hope they keep some words besides 'Yautja'. I just want to hear Dek yell 'Pauk'💔💔💔💔

I read that last one in that meme's audio

That one ⬆️

THE LAST OF US + the collective emotional trauma it causes <3

Noooooo!!!! I wanted more!!!

…..Guys..

Guys I cant cope with this, its too adorable.

I.. dude like.. for real.. like..

Transformers.. are made of metal.. and magnets.. stick to metallll…

…duuuude… I have so many cute headcannons now that I feel like my head is going to explode..

Imagine Miko.. She saves up her money and buys this sheet magnet one day right? She draws these cute little pictures, cuts them out, glues them to the magnet and cuts the magnet sheet to make her own personalized magnets.

She started with Bulkhead. She would discretely place the magnets on the back of his legs as high up as she could reach. He’s a bit clueless, cant actually see them unless he deliberately looks for them and cant feel them. So he has like 15 magnets stuck to his legs but he doesn’t know at all.

Miko manages to stick about 3 on Bumblebee before he started getting suspicious.

She gave some to Raf and Jack and they joined in.

The kids ended up turning it onto a game. They tried to see who could get the most magnets on different bots. Ratchet being worth the most points.

All three kids got about two magnets each on Optimus which was really hard to do because they had to somewhat climb on him and hope he didn’t move. Optimus knew from the very beginning exactly what they were doing and when they were doing it to him, but he thought it was adorable so pretended to be oblivious and stand extra still whenever he felt one of them climbing up on his pedes. Plus, Optimus was worth a lot of points in the game so he didn’t to make one of them lose because he caught them in the act.

Miko made one with a giant cute Bumblebee on it and put it on, well, duh, Bumblebee’s leg. He was later seen with a face full of pride and the magnet on his chest plate. 

Miko and Raf spent the night at Jacks house and Miko brought all her magnet gear. They took a sick day and spent all their time making magnets. They went to the base that weekend with these big heavy backpacks that were obviously filled with magnets. Every member of team Prime that knew about the magnet stuff pretended to be very busy and distracted that day.

Miko made a giant magnet that had a blushing Shrek on it and stuck it to Ratchet’s foot. He hasn’t noticed yet and she got over 1000 points for it.

Raf was placed on Ratchets shoulder at one point or another, and this absolute mad lad manages to stick a bright pink one with a flower on it right on the side of Ratchet’s head where he cant see or feel it. But of course all the other bots could see it clear as day and never said anything. Raf got 5000 points for getting a girly magnet on Ratchet’s head.

Arcee was the hardest to sneak up on, absolutely nobody could get a magnet on her. She was worth 6000 points because of the difficulty. At first she didn’t want one.. but then Bulkhead, and Bumblebee were gushing about how cute and creative the magnets were and how much they loved them. Arcee got a bit jealous, now she wants a pretty Miko magnet too..

But she cant just like, ask for one. So one day she pretended to be exhausted all day and constantly distracted and working on stuff. But as soon as a magnet mysteriously appeared on her ankle she suddenly had all the energy in the world and had a particular prep in her step. She now pretends to be tired when ever she wants another magnet.

Jack somehow managed to sneak a laugh/crying emoji magnet on the back of Smokescreens head. He still hasn’t noticed this particular magnet and keeps wondering why everyone keeps laughing literally behind his back.

When Wheeljack was around, Miko tried to sneak a magnet on him while he was sitting down with Bulkhead. But there’s no sneaking up on Jackie, so he instantly noticed her and was like, “The frag you doin??” And Bulkhead just whispered, “Duuuude you’re not supposed to notice.” Wheeljack kept the magnet because it said “foxy grandpa” on it, he doesn’t know what it means but he thought it sounded funny.

When Ratchet finally noticed the like, almost 10 magnets on his legs he was annoyed at first……

..But they’re so cute, and Miko worked so hard on them and they have little faces on them.. And it just.. It makes Miko so darn happy and giggly when she sees he still hasn’t noticed them yet. So he pretends to be the most oblivious of them all, letting the kids stick tons of magnets to him.

He gets to about 40 magnets before Optimus kind’a nudges him and goes, “I can no longer tell if you are actually oblivious to all the magnets, my friend.” And Ratchet just goes, “Don’t tell the kids I know, I don’t want to spoil their fun.” Optimus just nods and says, “Of course, would you do the same for me? I do not wish to spoil their game, I am still worth very many points.”

It genuinely took Ratchet forever to notice the pink flower magnet though. He didn’t remember putting Raf on his shoulder that one time and never thought that Raf would actually do something like that. He eventually noticed it when he saw that whenever anyone looked at him their faces would just light up.

…………………..He left that one there and pretended to not notice it because it made Optimus genuinely smile every, single, time, he looked at it.

One time Ratchet was called out to a mission with about 40 magnets stuck to his legs, he returned with only about 16 and had a crushed expression on his face. He was in a horrible mood after that mission, despite how well it went. Later the remaining 16 magnets disappeared too, Miko thought Ratchet had finally discovered them and just threw them out. She sheepishly went up to him and asked him if that was true.

Ratchet looked appalled and said, “Absolutely not! Why would I throw them out??” He brought his left arm down and flipped up his armored plating to reveal the 16 remaining magnets all neatly organized and stuck to the underside of the plate. “I didn’t want to lose any more of them, they wont get lost or damaged here.” Safe to say Miko didn’t think Ratchet cared and teared up a little.

At one point Miko made special jumbo magnets for each member of team prime. Optimus got a bright red one that was covered in blue glitter, it said “BOOS MAN” in big gold letters. She misspelled boss.. Arcee’s was baby blue with the word “QUEEN” poorly spelled in cursive with hot pink marker. Bumblebees was a bright yellow one with black stripes that had the word “STINGER” written on it, but you cant really tell because the words were also black. Ratchet had a white one that had an orange cross on it and had the words “Best Medic” written very carefully and neatly with black sharpie. Bulkhead’s was the biggest one, it was a bright green one that said “My Best Friend” on it. It had a tiny doodle of Miko and Bulk’s faces on it too.

Optimus smiled at his, said it was lovely and hid it some where to keep it safe, but occasionally he could be seen wearing it around the base. Same thing with Arcee, she said she loved it and wore it occasionally. Bumblebee wore his with pride on his chest plate around the base but took it off before he went on missions. Ratchet cried in private over his and hid it somewhere, occasionally on a good day the magnet could be spotted on his left chest plate. Bulkhead also cried a bit but not in private. He put it on his chest plate and said he’d treasure it forever.

Miko eventually ran out of magnets and money, so Agent Fowler came in clutch and got her like a 15 foot heavy duty magnet sheet and these mega big scissors so she could keep making them.

Ultra Magnus told Wheeljack to take the “foxy grandpa” magnet off his shoulder pad because it was “distracting”. Wheeljack looked at Ultra Magnus, then at Miko, then at Ultra Magnus. He said okay and took the magnet off his shoulder and slapped it right on his forehead.

Miko laughed so hard she nearly passed out. Ultra Magus said to take it off and Wheeljack was like “make me you coward”.

Wheeljack asked specifically for biggest, most ugly and obnoxious Magnet she had. Miko returned with a diner plate sized baked Berry Benson magnet that she didn’t have the chance to use. Wheeljack put it on his shoulder pad where it could best be seen and refused to take it off JUST to make the kids laugh and annoy Ultra Magnus.

I would keep going but honestly this post is getting too long and if I try to keep going my brain is going to melt from the cuteness.

♡(ಥ﹏ಥ)♡

Yourself.... be honest...

And who’s to stop me from writing Hunter Bad Batch fanfiction on Batuu

I thought the "graying tendrils/dreads with age" was cannon.... every fiction I have ever read that features an elder Predator has that.... is it not cannon? I'm so confused now

White haired Predator?????????

Me: Sees this

Also me: "Fine. I'll buy another pair of Dusthides at some point..."

Anthea🌄🏵️

Evenings like this are meant to be cherished.

A work in progress Dragon of mine...

His Name is Roland

Flight Rising

MysticMorning's dragon Roland

Breed, raise, and train dragons on Flight Rising!

I need to see what this looks like in his Jet form! 🤣🤣🤣

I love it!

decals sponsored by knockout [print here]

I haven't seen season 2 for this reason.

I KNOW that those two are gonna kill me with their skill

Pedro and Bella better win a fucking Emmy that’s all I’m gonna say

So there's a quiz floating around on my feed that I decided to try...

Here's my answer

I'm not sure how to take it since I stopped myself from writing last night because I scared myself when I realized that I was in a dark place mentally...

I was writing lore notes for Yohana when this happened...

This has made my day in ways you will never understand

ranking the best things I have heard surgeons say mid-surgery:

1. "Five second rule!" while scrubbed, after dropping a sterile scalpel on the floor (no they did NOT pick it up again but I swear everyone's buttholes puckered)

2. (spoken during the closing of a particularly long and difficult case) "Nurse - my tunes." :heavy metal starts blasting:

3. Gently to a fretful patient, pre-anaesthesia: "It's going to be okay. I promise, I've dealt with worse." As soon as the patient is unconscious: "This is literally the worst thing I've ever seen."

4. [okay this one was a med student] "Wowwww, that's so gross!!" Reg: "Please remember that [patient] is awake for this procedure." Student to patient: "Oh my god. I am so sorry, that was really unprofessional - " Patient, cheerfully, also engrossed with what's happening inside them on the screen: "Nah - it's, like, super gross, right?"

5. [another procedure where the patient couldn't be put under GA] Patient: *starts singing country roads midway through the procedure* Surgeon: *shrugs and joins in with surprisingly good harmony*

I don't typically comment. Mainly because I don't know what to say... I'm terrible with words. So when I like your post, I'm telling you I loved it.

"I didn't comment on a fic I liked because I don't think the author would care or remember my comment anyway". fanfic writer here, I still remember comments I got on my fics from seven years ago. I still think about them and they still make me smile. your kind comments are what motivates us and what helps us keep writing.

I personally know writers who take screenshot and print out comments they got from their readers.

TL;DR comments matter to us writers more than you think. if you like a fanfic, never be shy to let the author know ♡

Finally, I got around to reading this. I love it! ❤️

AMOR MEUS AETERNUS

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

Chapter 1: Sol Invictus

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 Chapter Word Count: 14k (sorry but I had to introduce characters properly :)) 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 series 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, flanked by their 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 has found his way back to this city—a place where radiant beauty dances in the sunlight, alive with the hum of activity, yet lurking beneath its vibrant facade is a profound anguish that seeps into the soul.

The clang of swords, the faint rustle of arrows gliding through the air, the countless scars that etched deep into his skin — each mark was a testament to the battles he had faced and the time he had spent waiting for release. They bore silent witness to his desperate longing for eternal rest, yet it was always just out of reach. 

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. 

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.

So this is what death is like, he thought, looking up at the half-blackened moon in the dark sky. 

The pain was unbearable, but strangely, he felt nothing when his body lost its function, when his ears stopped hearing and his body became numb.

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 that were unlike anything he had seen before. Anger flared within him again as he noted the disdainful grimace on her face; she hissed a phrase that was foreign to his ears. 

“What the fuck?” she 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!” 

You could hear her voice from the TV through the door, deep in a scientific monologue. "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.

“Whoa!” 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.” 

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 papyrus, 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.” He was lost in thought, recalling your promise.

“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 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 should go back to my world where I belong. I might have traveled here or been sent here, but I really need to return 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 read 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 to see him, but rather to discuss the scroll 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 previous 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 makes sense.”

“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. “Read 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. But why? 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; I think 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 promise I’ll bring you back. But now I really need to return, this might 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 returned to my time.”

Was he smiling???

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

“Stop it. I promised I’d get you back to your own time. You have my word.” 

“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 want, but I swear I’ll keep that promise, on my life. Now, please, don’t shout. The guards are patrolling nearby, and 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.

···

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Hi... I would like some help.

I have a dragon who I love, I recently started working on her lore um...

She is a He.

I need help writing it properly. I don't want to represent the community the wrong way in any manner. She's (I keep saying she ugh) inspired by a character called George in a Historical Fiction book based around the Civil War. George was born a female who faked being a boy just to get money home to her sick family (I can't remember if it was a sister or a brother. Heck, it could have been a parent. I haven't read the series in 5? years. It's been a while forgive me) Please help me write this properly. If you want to write it yourself, I'll give you all the credit

Early birthday present for myself...

Those are her plans ⬆️

Her currently ⬇️

Also, her current name is Spots. I plan to change it to Marlow

Edit: Her name has been changed.

Flight Rising

MysticMorning's dragon Spots

Breed, raise, and train dragons on Flight Rising!

I keep seeing people hatch eggs for their birthday... *(looks in hoard)* I don't have any... ehh.... I'll just breed that pair the throws beautiful hatchlings.

Thank you! The windies are getting a little too excited for their ancient. I think we are still getting used to the newest breeds. If we have to wait for 3 years, that's fine.

can i just say im happy its been a lil while since everlux's released. thank god. the over-ancient influx may be over.

not that i dont like them we just REALLY needed time to cool off from them 😭