#amrit

Pairing: Amrit Rathod x Reader (FMC)

Tropes: Hurt/Comfort & Emotional Healing, Grumpy x Sunshine (Soft Edition), Slow Burn Romance, Cozy Forced Proximity, Size Difference, Survivor’s Guilt / Moving On.

Synopsis: Haunted by the blood-soaked memories of the train tragedy that took his first love, ex-NSG commando Amrit Rathod escapes to the misty, silent hills of Landour to live like a ghost. He wants nothing to do with the world—until he steps into a cozy, warm bookstore. There, he meets you: a soft, cheerful, and grounding bookstore owner who counters his sharp, scarred edges with infinite patience and hot mugs of ginger-chai. What starts as quiet afternoons in a faded corduroy chair slowly blossoms into a gentle, slow-burn romance. But as Amrit’s heart begins to beat for you, he is crushed by an agonizing wave of survivor's guilt.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This fiction is based on Nikhil Nagesh Bhat's version of Amrit Rathod, portrayed by the actor Lakshya. This is not intended to accurately represent or glorify real-world counter-terrorism operations, military personnel, or mental health conditions. All plotlines are strictly intended for creative and entertainment purposes. Based on a request by @bittermiseryy Hope I did justice to this one love.✨

The relentless clatter of train tracks and the suffocating scent of iron and smoke had taken a long time to leave Amrit’s head. When he finally resigned from the NSG, he didn't want a grand send-off—no medals, no polite handshakes from superiors who praised his lethality. He grabbed a single, worn duffel bag, said goodbye to the others, left New Delhi behind, and headed north into the mist-shrouded hills of Landour. He needed a place where the air was cold enough to shock his lungs, where the nights were completely silent, and where nobody knew his name or what he had done in the narrow, blood-soaked corridors of that train.

He lived like a ghost in a small, stone cottage on the edge of the ridge. His days were deliberately exhausting—chopping wood until his hands blistered, walking miles uphill until his muscles screamed. But the nights were the hardest. The silence of the hills only amplified the chaos in his head: the phantom screams and the devastating memory of Tulika's voice ringing in his ears the exact moment she was stabbed. He was running out of ways to outrun his mind.

Until he walked into your bookstore.

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon, the kind where the fog rolled so low it pressed against the glass windows of your shop. The bell above the door chimed, a sharp sound that usually preceded a local looking for a magazine. But when you looked up from a stack of secondhand paperbacks, the breath caught in your throat.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped inside. He wore a heavy, black jacket with the patch of NSG on it, his massive frame practically swallowing the small entryway. Even under the layers, you could see the rigid, tense posture of someone who spent his life on high alert. His dark hair was slightly damp from the mist, and a faint, jagged scar traced his jawline. But it was his eyes that held you—strikingly intense, completely dark, and carrying an exhausting weight.

"Welcome," you said, adjusting your cardigan, your voice soft and grounding in the quiet room. "Feel free to look around. Agar kuch specific dhoondh rahe ho, toh batana."

Amrit paused, his dark eyes sweeping over the warm wooden shelves, the overflowing baskets of books, and finally settling on you. You were leaning comfortably against the counter, your soft, curvy frame a stark contrast to his sharp, hard edges.

He gave a curt, almost mechanical nod. "Nahi, bas dekh raha hoon. Thank you."

His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He retreated into the furthest aisle, his large hands carefully avoiding touching anything, as if he were afraid his touch might break the fragile peace of the shop. He didn't buy anything that day. He just stood in the corner, read a few pages of a classic poetry book, and left right before closing.

But then, Tuesday became Thursday. And Thursday became every single day at exactly three in the afternoon.

You quickly learned his routine. He would select a book, sit in the old, faded corduroy armchair by the bay window, and open it. But half the time, he wasn't reading. He would just stare out the window and look at people outside going on about their days, his jaw clenched, lost in a memory so heavy that it visibly pulled his shoulders down. You never pressed him. Instead, you gave him exactly what he seemed to need: space, and absolute quiet.

Here is how we can seamlessly integrate those sweet, caring gestures into that scene, expanding on how your bond deepens over blankets, trinkets, and shared snacks:

Slowly, you began to introduce small comforts. Landour winters were unforgiving, and he always brought a layer of frost in with him. One chilly afternoon, before he even walked through the door, you prepared a thick ceramic mug of ginger-cardamom chai, letting the steam carry the sharp, comforting scent through the room. When he finally walked in and sat down, you quietly walked over and placed the mug on the small side table next to his chair.

Amrit froze, looking from the steaming mug up to your face.

You smiled warmly, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of your soft oversized sweater. "Aapke aane ka waqt ho gaya tha. Aur thand kaafi hai baahar. So, on the house."

Amrit stared at the chai, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. For a second, you thought he might refuse it. Then, his large, calloused fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic. A tiny, barely visible tug appeared at the corner of his lips.

"Iski zaroorat nahi thi—par shukriya," he murmured, taking a slow sip. His shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. "Bohot achhi chai hai."

Seeing him relax, even just a fraction, made something soften in your chest. The next Tuesday, when the wind outside grew so harsh it rattled the glass panes, you didn't just bring him chai. You walked over carrying a thick, heavy woolen blanket you kept behind the counter. Without making a big deal out of it, you draped it over the arm of his corduroy chair.

"Yahan khidki ke paas bohot thand aati hai," you said softly, offering a reassuring smile. "Tum ise use kar sakte ho."

Amrit looked at the blanket, then up at you, completely unaccustomed to being looked after with such simple, unconditional care. Slowly, he pulled the heavy wool over his lap. From that afternoon onward, the blanket became his blanket, folded neatly on the chair arm, waiting just for him.

You started leaving other little things for him, too. Sometimes it was a small brass paperweight shaped like an owl to hold his pages down against the mountain breeze, or a tiny, intricately carved wooden bookmark you had found at a local market. He never said much when he discovered these tiny trinkets on his side table, but you noticed how his massive, scarred hands would pick them up with immense reverence, tracing the edges as if they were precious artifacts.

Food became your favorite way to chip away at his walls. You started bringing small metal tiffin boxes from your kitchen upstairs—warm, homemade brownies, soft pieces of sandesh, or fresh pastries from the bakery down the lane. You would quietly set the plate down next to his book. "Maine apne liye banaya tha, thoda bach gaya. Kha kar batana kaisa hai."

Eventually, you stopped walking back to the safety of your counter right away. One afternoon, after placing a plate of warm biscuits between you, you hesitated by his chair.

"Agar tum akele padhna chahte ho toh main chali jaungi," you said, gesturing to the small wooden stool a few feet away. "Par agar tum bor ho rahe ho... kya main yahan baith sakti hoon?"

Amrit looked at the stool, then at you, his chest rising with a deep breath. He closed his book slightly, keeping his finger between the pages to mark his place. "Baitho na," he said, his gravelly voice dropping to a softer tone. "Mujhe... mujhe achha lagega."

You sat down, pulling your oversized sweater tight around your knees. At first, the conversations were short—you talked about the eccentric book preferences of the local schoolteachers, and he listened with quiet intensity, his dark eyes fixed entirely on you. But slowly, as the mist rolled past the window and the warmth of the tea enveloped the corner, he began to speak more. He would tell you about the high-altitude winters he experienced during his training, or how the silence of Landour was the first real quiet he had known in years.

Sitting there together, sharing snacks and stories in the cozy warmth of the shop, the invisible space between you began to close, turning the lonely bookstore into a true sanctuary for his battered soul.

As the weeks rolled into a second month, the routine cracked just a little bit more. It happened on a day when the mountain weather decided to be entirely unpredictable. A sudden, blinding downpour hit Landour just as a delivery truck arrived outside your shop with three massive, heavy cardboard boxes of secondhand novels.

The delivery driver dropped them off just inside the doorway, apologizing profusely before rushing back to his truck. The boxes were huge, water-logged at the bottom, and completely blocking the narrow entrance. You sighed, rolling up the sleeves of your soft knit sweater, and bent down to attempt to drag the first box toward the back counter. You strained, your boots slipping slightly on the smooth wooden floor, your breath catching.

Suddenly, a large, dark shadow loomed over you. Before you could even register his presence, Amrit was there.

"Ruko, tum ye kya kar rahi ho?" he said, his voice laced with a sudden, firm authority that made you snap upright.

"M-Mukesh bhai left them here," you stammered, rubbing your palms together. "Mujhe inhe counter ke peeche shift karna hai taaki raasta clear ho jaye."

Amrit didn't say another word. He simply stepped past you, his massive frame bending down with a fluid, terrifyingly efficient ease. His large, scarred hands gripped the sides of the heaviest box. With a single, effortless pull, he lifted it against his chest. The thick muscles of his forearms flexed, the veins straining under his skin as he moved the box to the back of the shop in three long strides.

He came back for the second and third, handling them as if they weighed absolutely nothing. When he finished, he stood near the counter, his breathing entirely normal, though a single stray lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead.

"Wow," you breathed out, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you looked at him in genuine awe. "Tum toh bade asaani se utha liye. Thank you, Amrit. Seriously, meri toh peeth toot jaati."

Amrit looked down at you, his dark eyes taking in your flushed face, your bright smile, and the soft, breathless way you were looking at him. For the first time, a genuine, undeniable warmth entered his expression. He reached up, awkwardly clearing his throat.

"Koi baat nahi. Itna bhaari samaan tumhe akele nahi uthana chahiye," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before pointing to the open box. "Inhe shelf par lagana hai? Main madad kar sakta hoon."

That afternoon, the bookstore felt smaller, warmer, and infinitely more intimate. The two of you sat on small wooden stools in the aisle, unpacking the novels. You would hand him a book, your fingers brushing against his rough, calloused palm, sending a subtle, electric jolt straight down your spine. Every time your fingers touched, Amrit would pause, his dark eyes locking onto yours for a lingering beat before he carefully placed the book on the shelf.

You noticed how meticulously he handled them, his giant hands treating the fragile pages with an immense, protective gentleness. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before—a man built for destruction, choosing to be entirely gentle in your world.

But the shadows of his past were never truly gone; they were merely waiting in the dark.

A few weeks later, a furious thunderstorm struck the hills. The mountain skies opened up into a terrifying downpour, the wind howling through the valley and rattling the tin roof of the bookstore. You were standing by the front window, checking the latches, while Amrit sat in his usual corduroy chair, a half-read history book in his lap.

Without warning, a sudden, violent clap of thunder shattered the quiet, followed by a bright flash of lightning that struck a nearby transformer. The lights in the shop instantly flickered and died, plunging the room into pitch-black darkness, save for the blue flashes from the windows.

In the dark, a horrific sound tore through the room—a sharp, ragged gasp, followed by the heavy thud of the history book hitting the floor.

You turned around quickly, your eyes straining in the dim light. "Amrit?"

He was standing up, his chair pushed back so violently it had overturned against the bookshelf. Through the shadows, you could see his eyes—they were wide, completely unfocused, and filled with a raw, primal terror. His hands were clenched into tight fists, his broad chest heaving as his breathing came in frantic, shallow bursts. He wasn't in Landour anymore. The sound of the thunder had become the echoing blast of a gunshot; the darkness was the suffocating, narrow corridor of the overnight train. He was surrounded by blood, his hands covered in it, helplessly watching Tulika slip away.

"Amrit!" you cried out softly, stepping through the dim light. You didn't think twice. You walked straight up to him, stepping right into his personal space, and instinctively placed your warm hands firmly on his broad forearms, trying to anchor him to reality. "Amrit, look at me. Tum safe ho. Mere shop mei ho. Koi train nahi hai yahan."

The moment your soft palms made contact with his rigid, trembling muscles, he gasped as if he had been burned. A terrifying, wild strength surged through him. He violently wrenched his arms out of your grip, stumbling backward into a shelf, a few books tumbling to the ground.

"Nahi, nahi... door raho!" he choked out, his voice thick with a sudden, terrifying panic, his eyes looking right through you. "Mujhe... mujhe jaana hoga."

Before you could say another word or reach for him again, he turned on his heel, slammed the bookstore door open, and disappeared into the blinding, torrential rain, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

He didn't show up the next day. Or the day after. By the sixth day of his absolute absence, a heavy, suffocating anxiety settled deep in your chest. You couldn't take it anymore. You locked up the shop early on a Sunday afternoon, threw on a heavy raincoat, and hiked up the winding, muddy path toward his isolated stone cottage at the edge of the ridge.

When you reached the top, the rain had stopped, leaving behind a thick, freezing mist. You found him sitting on the wooden steps of his porch, completely drenched from the fog, staring blankly out at the empty valley. He looked entirely wrecked—his eyes were bloodshot, his jaw covered in a thick, dark beard, looking like a man who hadn't slept or eaten in a week.

"Amrit," you called out softly, stepping into the small mud yard.

He didn't look up at you. He kept his eyes locked on the dirt below, his large hands tightly clasped between his knees. "Tumhe yahan nahi aana chahiye tha," he whispered, his voice dangerously cracked and hoarse. "Go back. Main tumhare liye thik nahi hoon. Main kisi ke liye thik nahi hoon."

"Main nahi jaungi," you said firmly, your voice unwavering as you walked closer, stopping right in front of the steps. "Tum bina kuch kahe us raat bhaag gaye, Amrit. Mujhe batao kya baat hai. Please."

Finally, he looked up, and the sheer brokenness in his eyes made your heart ache.

"Ek ladki thi... Tulika," he confessed, the name tearing out of his throat like a jagged piece of rusted metal. "My fiancé. Wo us train par thi. Kuch bure log aaye... dacoits. Unhone sab lootna shuru kiya. Logoko marna shuru kar diya. Aur mai... mai ek commando ho kar bhi use bacha nahi paya. Meri aankhon ke saamne sab khatam ho gaya. Maine use khone ke baad... maine apna aapa kho diya. Maine un sabko jaan se maar diya, ek ek karke. I became a monster, but it didn't bring her back."

Tears finally spilled over his dark eyes, tracking down his rough, stubbled cheeks. He looked at you with a deep, agonizing shame that seemed to crush his massive frame.

"Wo chali gayi," he wept quietly. "Aur ab, jab bhi mai tumhare shop mei baithta hoon, jab bhi tumhari smile dekh kar mujhe achha lagta hai... mujhe lagta hai mai use betray kar raha hoon. Mera dil tumhare liye dhadakne laga hai, aur mujhe is baat se nafrat hai. How can I dare to be happy with you? Jab wo ab is duniya mei nahi hai? Main jab bhi sota hoon, mujhe lagta hai mai use dhoka de raha hoon. Mujhse ye guilt jhela nahi jata."

Your eyes filled with tears, not from fear of his violent past, but from the immense, suffocating pain he had been carrying entirely alone in this cold cottage. You didn't argue, and you didn't preach. You slowly stepped forward, climbed the two wooden steps, and sat down right next to him on the damp wood, your soft side pressing firmly against his hard, trembling shoulder.

"Amrit," you said, your voice a steady, calm anchor in the mountain breeze. You reached out, gently but firmly taking one of his clenched fists and forcing his fingers to unwind so you could interlace your hand with his. "Kisi aur se pyaar karne ka matlab ye nahi hai ki tum Tulika ko bhool gaye ho. Ya tumhara usse pyaar jhootha tha. She was a beautiful part of your life, aur wo hamesha tumhare dil ke ek kone mei rahegi. Par tum ek nightmare se guzre ho, Amrit. Us train par tumhara ek hissa mar gaya tha, par pura nahi. You survived."

You squeezed his hand, leaning in closer so he could feel your warmth. "Aur survived hone ka matlab ye nahi hai ki tum bachi hui zindagi sirf us andhere mei guzaar do, apne aap ko saza dete hue. You are allowed to live in the daylight now, Amrit. Tumne bohot dard jhela hai. Mujhse pyaar karna... ya mere sath khush hona koi gunah nahi hai. Please, apne aap ko maaf kar do."

Amrit let out a ragged, broken sob—a sound of pure, unadulterated release that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. The armor cracked completely. He buried his face in his large, free hand, his massive shoulders shaking violently as days and months of repressed trauma and grief finally broke through.

You didn't hesitate. You shifted closer, wrapping your arms tightly around his broad chest, pulling his heavy, shaking frame securely against your soft body. You held him with everything you had, offering him a judgment-free sanctuary.

Amrit reached out blindly, his massive arms locking around your waist, pulling you so close there was no space left between you. He clung to you like a drowning man clutching onto a life raft, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His hot tears soaked right through your cardigan and onto your skin, but you didn't care. You just held him, kissing the top of his damp hair, holding the ex-soldier until the storms inside him finally ran dry.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry," he wept quietly into your skin, over and over, until his breathing finally slowed, anchored entirely by your soft, steady pulse.

The healing wasn't an overnight miracle, but breaking the dam of his grief changed the entire trajectory of his life in Landour. Amrit stopped running from the bookstore. He began to accept that he was allowed to feel peace, and more importantly, he allowed himself to fall completely, deeply in love with you.

The transition into a formal relationship was quiet, beautiful, and deeply domestic. He began staying at the shop until closing every single day, no longer as a distant customer sitting in the corner, but as your partner.

One rainy evening, after the last customer had left and the streets of Landour were quiet, you were standing behind the counter, carefully writing down the daily earnings in your ledger. The shop was warm, lit by the amber glow of a few lamps, the scent of old paper and vanilla hanging thick in the air.

Suddenly, you felt a familiar, comforting presence behind you. Amrit walked into the narrow space behind the counter. He didn't say a word. He just stepped right up to your back, his large, warm hands gently settling on your waist. He pulled you backward until your spine was pressed flush against his solid, broad chest.

You let out a soft breath, instantly relaxing, placing your smaller hands over his massive ones. He leaned down, burying his face in your hair, taking a deep inhale.

"Maine kabhi nahi socha tha ki mai ye kisi se dobara keh paunga," he murmured against your skin, his voice incredibly low, fierce with protection but dripping with tenderness. He squeezed your waist gently, loving the soft, comfortable curve of your body in his arms. "Par mai tumse bohot pyaar karta hoon. Bohot zyaada. Tumne mujhe dobara jeena sikhaya hai, meri jaan."

A beautiful warmth bloomed in your chest. You turned around within the tight circle of his arms, looping your hands around his neck, looking up into his dark eyes. The haunted smoke that used to cloud them was gone, replaced by a clear, burning devotion.

"Mai bhi tumse bohot pyaar karti hoon, Amrit," you whispered, leaning into him. "Aur mai hamesha yahan hoon. Kahin nahi jaa rahi."

He looked down at your face, his gaze softening completely, before leaning down to cup your face in his hands. His thumb gently traced your cheekbone before his lips met yours. The kiss was slow, deep, and heavy with a quiet reverence—a beautiful promise of a future they were building together.

Even in paradise, recovery is a winding path. The nightmares didn't disappear completely, they simply became manageable because he wasn't fighting them alone.

A month into your relationship, Amrit spent his first night staying over at your small apartment above the bookstore. The room was cozy, filled with thick blankets and the faint sound of the mountain wind rustling the pine trees outside. You had fallen asleep curled against his side, his massive arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close.

In the dead of the night, you were startled awake by a sudden, violent twitch.

The bedsheets were tangled, and the air in the room felt tight. You looked up to see Amrit thrashing slightly, a low, tortured groan escaping his lips. His face was covered in a thick layer of cold sweat, his jaw clenching so hard you could hear his teeth grind. He was muttering incoherently, his fingers clawing at the mattress.

"Amrit," you whispered, immediately sitting up. You didn't shake him; you knew better than to startle a trained soldier out of a night terror. Instead, you crawled closer, sliding your knees on either side of his hips, and gently placed your hands on his cheeks, your palms soft and cooling against his hot skin.

"Amrit, hey... listen to my voice. Main yahan hoon."

His eyes snapped open, wild and completely bloodshot, staring blindly at the ceiling. His chest was heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs so loudly you could practically hear it. For a terrifying second, his hands flew up, grabbing your wrists with a grip of absolute steel. It hurt, but you didn't pull away. You didn't flinch.

"Look at me, Amrit," you said, your voice dripping with an absolute, unwavering calm. "Tum mere ghar mei ho. Mere sath ho. Look at the window, see the trees? No one is hurting you."

Slowly, his eyes focused on your face. He took in the soft curve of your features, the absolute love and safety radiating from your eyes, and the gentle, solid weight of your body anchoring him down. The terrifying tension in his hands instantly vanished. He released your wrists, his arms trembling as he instead sat and reached up to bury his face against your chest, wrapping his arms around your waist.

He held onto your soft torso as if you were the only solid thing left in the universe.

"I'm sorry," he rasped, his voice thick with shame, his forehead pressing into your soft skin. "I... I saw the train again. They were coming for you this time. I couldn't move my legs."

"Shh... it was just a dream," you whispered softly, your fingers gently running through his thick, damp hair, scratching his scalp in slow, soothing motions. You leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of his head. "Main bilkul safe hoon, Amrit. Main tumhare paas hoon. Sab thik hai."

You stayed like that for a long time in the quiet room. You slowly shifted, pulling him down so that you're on your back and his heavy head was resting comfortably against your chest, your arms wrapped entirely around his broad shoulders. You kept up the slow, rhythmic stroking on his back, whispering soft, comforting nonsense into the dark night until his frantic, racing heartbeat finally steadied against your own, matching your calm rhythm, and he could finally drift back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

By the time summer fully arrived, the cold winter grief had completely dissolved into something beautiful. On a bright, sunny Saturday afternoon, the local shopkeepers and traveling tourists grew accustomed to a very familiar, heartwarming sight just outside the bookstore.

The weather was perfect, the sky a brilliant, clear blue over the green valley. You had placed a small, rustic wooden bench right outside the shop entrance, shaded by a colorful canvas awning.

Amrit was sitting on the bench, his massive frame looking incredibly relaxed. He wore a simple black t-shirt that showed off the heavy, muscular contours of his shoulders and the thick scars on his arms—but those scars didn't look like wounds anymore; they looked like history. He was comfortably holding an old, thick fiction novel, reading quietly.

Right next to him sat you. You had a small steel plate balanced on your lap, filled with warm, crispy, syrup-dripping jalebis that you had just bought from the sweet shop down the lane.

"Amrit, muh kholo," you said with a bright giggle, picking up a sticky, golden piece.

Amrit broke his gaze from the book, looking at you. A soft, incredibly beautiful smile—one that he reserved entirely for you—spread across his face. He leaned over and took the sweet from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips. He chewed, a soft hum of satisfaction escaping his throat.

"Bohot meetha hai," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Ji nahi, bilkul perfect hai," you countered, popping a piece into your own mouth, your cheeks puffing up slightly as you chewed happily.

Amrit didn't return to his book right away. He just sat there, his dark eyes locked onto your face. He watched the way the bright afternoon sunlight caught the highlights in your hair, the comfortable, unbothered way you sat in your own skin, and the pure, radiant happiness that followed you wherever you went. His heart swelled with a love so fierce, so protective, that it nearly took his breath away.

He reached over with his large hand, intertwining them perfectly with yours. His large, calloused thumb gently rubbed the back of your soft hand, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse of your life.

Amrit Rathod had loved Tulika in a past lifetime, and a piece of his broken heart would always belong to the tragic boy who had fought like a demon in the narrow corridors of that train. He would never forget her, and he didn't have to.

But as he looked at you—laughing at a passing street dog wagging his tail, completely safe, and entirely his—Amrit squeezed your hand and leaned over to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. He had survived the long, horrific dark, and here in the hills of Landour, wrapped in your softness and warmth, he had finally found his home.

HIIII GANG- this is my first time writing on Amrit Rathod-pls don't kill me if you don't like it or something. I love Tulika-I do-but I love Amrit more AND I NEEDED MY BABY TO BE HAPPY OK? 🫠🫠 LOVE YOU PEPSSSS DO LEAVE A LIKE AND COMMENT🤍🤍

@mad-who-ra @bittermiseryy @avaaaaxoxo @sassytroopersurvivor @itstiaofficial @maladaptive-anxiety @dhoodhsoda @imrankaunbsdk @writrsblu @so-arttt-deco @awesomeblossomsblog @bumblebeeloverrr @gravelyperpetualpuppet @athaanorris @athaa @arabellapost @valiantsculptureveil @vicky-270415 @moon-inked @gulaabjamun08 @vexillia @ab-yaha-koi-nhi-aayega @khoonaurkhanjar @bitchy-bi-trash @diyak11 @avakthtvdmarvel11 @royaldreamermonsoon @precioussophia @idonthavechatpateusernamed @maxpaglu @fellivra @wtafananya @benjamintwills @nazmnotes @hamzakamehroomkurta @ishq-e-rehman @between-smoke-and-roses @work-of-procrastination @tere-naal-nachna @willowsgoldenhour @rutvii 

Mi-mai, mon cousin Olivier et sa compagne franco-américaine Bonnie, sont venus me voir. D'où une visite obligatoire au Louvre-Lens :

homme barbu - Chypre, époque achéménide, 450 av. J-C.

bracelet en or - Amrit, Syrie, 400-300 av. J-C.

molosse - Memphis, Basse Epoque, 664-332 av. J-C.

antéfixe - Caere (Cerveteri), Etrurie, 500 av. J-C

coupe à procession dionysiaque - Grèce, 540 av. J-C.

stèle votive de Arish fils de Himilk à Tanit et Ba'al Hammon - Carthage, 814-1 av. J-C.

voir 2

I'm just here thinking about these two characters, one of which is a part-time witch & goddess (she is to me idc about others) who kills horrible people and takes revenge, and another character who is a soldier in love, who I absolutely love, meanwhile the said character has snapped and is going on a killing rampage (wat a king tbh).

Gray characters who go batshit crazy and cross the "line" to get justice and revenge, hunting perpetrators, is what I want (absolute legends)(like pls date me! marry me! ruin me!!). This is my fictional standard because obv not real cause u know 🙂 legal reasons.