Temporal Entanglements

The scent of old paper and lukewarm coffee was Dr. Jane Crawford’s preferred perfume. It clung to the tweed of her blazer and the air of her cluttered study, a testament to another late night spent wrestling with the dead. Her current opponent was a particularly stubborn piece of bronze, officially cataloged as a late-period Roman astrolabe, though Jane had her doubts. It sat in the pool of light cast by her desk lamp, a complex web of interlocking rings and cryptic engravings that defied easy classification.

She’d acquired it from a slightly shady antiquities auction in Italy, listed with a "provenance uncertain" that was both a red flag and an irresistible siren song to a historian like her. For weeks, she had measured its angles, photographed its markings, and cross-referenced them against every known text on Roman astronomy and metallurgy. Nothing quite fit. The symbols etched into the metal were tantalizingly close to late-period Latin script but twisted into something alien. The craftsmanship was too precise, too seamless for its supposed age.

Tonight, fueled by a third cup of coffee and sheer academic obsession, she noticed something new. A hairline seam on the central gimbal, almost invisible to the naked eye. It wasn't a crack from age; it was a deliberate join. Her heart gave a little flutter of discovery. With the delicate touch she usually reserved for crumbling papyrus, she picked up a fine-tipped dental pick from her restoration kit. She traced the seam, feeling for a purchase point.

Finding a minute indentation, she gently inserted the tip and applied the slightest pressure. For a moment, nothing. She pushed a fraction harder, her breath held tight in her chest.

Click.

The sound was soft, but in the hush of the study, it was as loud as a gunshot. It wasn't the grating protest of ancient, corroded metal. It was the clean, mechanical sound of a well-oiled lock disengaging. Jane’s hand froze. The interlocking rings of the astrolabe, which had been static for what she presumed were two millennia, began to move. They rotated silently, impossibly smoothly, rearranging themselves into a new configuration.

A low hum started, a deep thrumming vibration that traveled from the artifact, through the solid oak of her desk, and up her arm. She snatched her hand back as if burned. The engraved symbols, once dull bronze, now pulsed with a soft, internal luminescence, casting an ethereal blue light across her scattered notes.

“What the hell?” she breathed, her voice a dry whisper.

The hum deepened in pitch, the vibration intensifying until the coffee in her mug trembled, creating concentric ripples on its dark surface. The blue light bled from the device, no longer contained within the metal. It spilled onto the desk, swirling like ink in water, projecting a complex, shifting vortex of light and shadow onto the ceiling. The air grew thick and heavy, crackling with a static charge that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. The smell of ozone, sharp and sterile, overwhelmed the familiar comfort of old books.

Jane scrambled back, her chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. This wasn't history. This wasn't science, not any science she knew. The academic part of her brain, the part that craved order and evidence, was screaming in protest, but it was being drowned out by a more primal instinct: fear. The low hum had escalated into a deafening roar that seemed to emanate not from the device itself, but from the very air in the room, a sound that resonated deep within her bones.

The light was no longer just a projection; it was a presence. It coalesced in the center of the room, above her priceless antique Persian rug, twisting and churning into a blinding column of energy. It tore at the edges of her vision, a maelstrom of cerulean and white that seemed to bend the very fabric of the room around it. Jane shielded her eyes with her arm, her mind reeling, trying to reconcile the impossible spectacle with the quiet, predictable world she had known just moments before. The astrolabe wasn't a tool for measuring the stars. It was a key. And she had just unlocked a door to somewhere she was never meant to go.

The roar intensified into a physical force, a pressure that made Jane’s teeth ache and her eyeballs feel like they were being squeezed from their sockets. The column of light pulsed, and with a final, deafening crack that sounded like the sky splitting open, it vomited something out.

It wasn't a gentle deposit. A human form, flailing and tangled in a brief after-image of golden light, was violently ejected from the vortex and slammed onto the floor. The impact was sickeningly solid, a heavy thud of flesh and bone against the thick pile of the Persian rug that did little to cushion the blow. The man landed on his side, skidding a few inches before coming to a stop in a heap of stunned limbs.

As quickly as it had appeared, the vortex imploded. The blinding light and crushing sound vanished, collapsing back into the bronze device on the desk, which fell silent. The symbols went dark. A profound, ringing silence filled the room, broken only by the ragged sound of Jane’s own panicked breathing and a low groan from the man on her floor.

The smell hit her first. It was a primal, masculine stench that cut through the sterile ozone—the acrid tang of sweat, the coppery scent of fresh blood, and the hot, dusty smell of sand. Jane’s gaze was riveted to the figure sprawled less than ten feet away from her.

He was magnificent. And he was nearly naked.

Her mind, the orderly historian’s mind, tried to catalog him like an artifact. Homo sapiens, male, late twenties. Superb physical condition. But that clinical assessment was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer, visceral reality of him. He was a landscape of muscle and sun-darkened skin, all corded sinew and powerful bulges that spoke of a life of brutal, constant effort. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, his back a roadmap of sculpted muscle. His legs were thick and powerful, columns of strength dusted with coarse black hair and caked with grime.

He was wearing nothing but a stained leather loincloth, a subligaculum, that was barely more than a strap and a pouch. It was soaked with sweat and darkened in patches with what looked like blood, clinging precariously to his hips. The worn leather did little to hide the heavy, masculine shape of him, the thick bulge of his cock and balls pressing against the strained material. One of his feet was bare, the other still encased in a leather sandal that laced halfway up a calf ridged with muscle. A bronze greave protected his other shin, dented and scratched.

He was a tapestry of violence. A fresh, weeping gash ran along his ribs, welling with dark blood that trickled sluggishly onto the intricate patterns of Jane’s rug. Older scars, silvered and white, crisscrossed his arms and torso—a testament to a life lived at the edge of a blade. His dark hair was matted with sweat and sand, plastered to a strong neck and a square, stubborn jaw covered in several days’ worth of rough stubble.

He was a gladiator.

The thought wasn't a guess; it was a certainty. Jane had spent a decade studying images of them, reading accounts of their lives, trying to imagine the men behind the mosaics and statues. Now, one of them was lying bleeding on her floor, a living, breathing anachronism of sweat, blood, and brutal masculinity. He was more real, more potent, than any text or artifact she had ever touched.

The man groaned again, a deeper sound this time, and stirred. With a wince, he pushed himself up, planting a large, calloused hand flat on the floor. The muscles in his arm and shoulder bunched, cording into thick ropes of power as he leveraged his torso off the rug. He shook his head, dislodging a small spray of sand and sweat, and slowly, his eyes opened.

They were dark, confused, and utterly feral. They swept the room—the towering bookshelves, the glowing screen of her forgotten laptop, the strange glass window looking out onto a dark, manicured lawn—with a wild bewilderment that quickly hardened into suspicion. Then, his gaze found her. He froze, his body tensing like a cornered wolf. Those dark, dangerous eyes locked onto hers, and in their depths, Jane saw not just confusion, but the instinctive, lethal assessment of a man for whom any stranger was a potential threat.

Panic was a cold, sharp thing in Jane’s throat. Her mind, usually her greatest asset, was a useless jumble of disconnected facts and primal fear. Gladiator. Blood. Danger. He was rising, a predator unfurling, and every instinct screamed at her to run. But where? Out the door? He’d be on her before she reached the hallway.

Her eyes darted around the room, searching for a weapon. Her letter opener was a toy. The heavy bust of Cicero on her bookshelf was too far away. Then she saw it. Tucked by the door, a squat, red cylinder. The fire extinguisher. A mandatory safety feature she’d always found slightly unsightly. Now, it was her only hope.

Moving with a speed born of pure adrenaline, she snatched it from its bracket. It was heavier than she expected. She fumbled with the pin, her fingers clumsy and slick with nervous sweat, finally pulling it free. She hefted the cylinder, aiming the black nozzle at the man’s chest.

He was fully on his feet now, standing in the center of her rug like some brutal monument come to life. He stood with his feet planted wide, his weight balanced, a fighter’s stance. He saw the red object in her hands, his dark eyes narrowing as he tried to classify it. A weapon? A standard? Some strange magical totem? His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“Ubi sum?” he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly sound that seemed scraped raw. Where am I?

The Latin, so familiar to her from the silent pages of Tacitus and Suetonius, was shocking to hear spoken aloud. It was rough, guttural, the vowels clipped. It was the Latin of the barracks and the arena, not the polished prose of the Senate. But she understood. And he might understand her.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, terrifying silence. She tightened her grip on the extinguisher's handle.

“In domo mea es,” she replied, her own voice trembling, her academic pronunciation sounding strange and effete in comparison to his. You are in my house. “Securus es.” You are safe.

The gladiator’s head tilted. A flicker of profound confusion crossed his features. He understood her words, but they made no sense in this context. His eyes swept the room again, lingering on the electric lamp casting a warm glow on her desk, the rows upon rows of neatly bound books. He looked back at her, this strange woman with no slaves, dressed in soft, peculiar fabrics, speaking his language while holding a bizarre red club.

“Haec non est Roma,” he stated, his gaze hard and accusatory. This is not Rome. He took a half-step forward, a deliberate, testing movement. The muscles in his thighs and chest tightened, and Jane felt a primal lurch in her stomach that was equal parts fear and something else, something she refused to name. The sheer physical presence of him was overwhelming. The subligaculum did nothing to conceal the heavy weight of his cock and balls, a dark, intimidating bulge of flesh that was as much a part of his threatening aura as the scars that littered his body.

“Noli!” she commanded, her voice cracking but firm. Don’t! She braced the extinguisher against her hip. “Neminem laedere volo.” I don’t want to hurt anyone.

He stopped, his eyes fixed on the nozzle she pointed at him. He was weighing his options, calculating the distance between them, assessing her resolve. He could likely cross the space in two powerful strides, before she could even react. But he was injured, and he had no idea what that red cylinder could do. Was she a venefica, a sorceress who had summoned him to this strange, soft prison?

“Quis es, femina?” he demanded, his voice low and suspicious. Who are you, woman?

“Mē nōmen est Iāna,” she said, anglicizing her name into the closest Latin equivalent. Jane. “Ego… ego sum docta.” I am… a scholar.

A scholar. The word hung in the air between them, absurd and unbelievable. He let out a short, harsh laugh that was devoid of humor. A scholar? Women were not scholars. They were wives and priestesses and whores. This place, this woman—it was all wrong. He took another slow step, his bare foot sinking into the plush fibers of the rug. He was closer now, close enough that she could see the pulse beating in the thick column of his neck, smell the iron tang of his blood more strongly.

“I will not warn you again,” Jane said, switching to English in her panic, then quickly correcting herself. “Mane ubi es!” Stay where you are!

He didn’t understand the English, but her tone was unmistakable. He halted again, his dark eyes boring into hers. A long moment stretched, filled only by the sound of their breathing. He was a creature of violence and instinct, and she was a creature of intellect and order. And here they were, locked in a standoff in her quiet suburban study, two worlds colliding over an antique rug, with only a fire extinguisher and a dead language to mediate the impossible reality of the moment.

Marcus’s dark eyes flickered from her face, down the length of her body, and back up again. It was a slow, deliberate appraisal, the kind of look a man gives a horse he’s thinking of buying or a slave he’s considering for his bed. It was insulting, proprietary, and it sent a hot, unwelcome flush creeping up Jane’s neck. He was cataloging her, stripping her down with his gaze, and she felt a bizarre, shameful thrill mix with her fear.

He finally broke the silence, his voice a low rumble. “Venefica. A sorceress. You have brought me here with your magic.” He gestured with his chin to the glowing lamp on her desk. “Your captured star.”

“It’s not magic,” she said, her voice steadier now. “And I am not a sorceress.”

He didn’t believe her. A small, contemptuous smile touched his lips, a flash of white teeth in the stubbled darkness of his face. But the smile faltered as he shifted his weight. A sharp hiss of pain escaped him, and his hand flew to his side, pressing against the deep gash in his ribs. Fresh blood, dark and thick, welled up between his fingers, dripping onto the pristine wool of her rug. His face paled beneath the grime and tan, and for a second, the feral predator in his eyes was replaced by a flash of pure, animal pain. He swayed on his feet.

This was her chance.

Slowly, deliberately, Jane lowered the fire extinguisher, setting it on the floor with a soft thud. She held her hands up, palms out, a universal gesture of peace she prayed he would understand.

“Vulneratus es,” she said softly. You are wounded. “Sine me adiuvare te.” Let me help you.

He watched her, his breathing harsh and shallow. The suspicion in his eyes was still there, but it was now warring with exhaustion and pain. He was a long way from the arena, from anything he understood. He was bleeding, weakened, in the strange, soft den of a woman who spoke his language and wasn't afraid of him. Or at least, she was hiding it well. He was intrigued despite himself. Her scent reached him now—not the heavy perfumes of Roman matrons, but something clean, like soap and paper and woman. It was unsettling.

“Why?” he grunted, the single word a challenge. Why would she help him? In his world, kindness from a stranger was usually the prelude to a knife in the back.

“Because you are bleeding on my rug,” she answered honestly, her gaze dropping to the dark, spreading stain. She immediately regretted it. Her eyes were drawn back to him, to the raw physicality of his body. The subligaculum was a pathetic scrap of leather against the sheer power of his hips and thighs. The pouch was stretched taut over the thick, heavy shaft of his cock, the distinct outline of its head pressing against the material. She could see the heavy hang of his balls beneath. He was built for violence and for fucking, and her scholar’s mind felt utterly swamped by the primal, carnal reality of him.

She forced her gaze back to his face, hoping the heat she felt wasn’t visible. “Sit down. Before you fall down.” She pointed to the sturdy leather armchair near the fireplace. “Sede.”

He considered the chair as if it might be a trap, its plush leather an alien concept compared to the hard benches and stone blocks of his world. But the strength was visibly draining from him. The fight, the adrenaline, the temporal journey—whatever it was—had taken its toll. With a final, wary look at her, he moved. He didn’t so much sit as collapse into the armchair, his massive frame seeming to swallow it whole. He leaned his head back against the leather, his eyes closing for a moment, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The pose exposed the long, powerful line of his throat and the full landscape of his scarred torso. The loincloth shifted as he sat, riding higher on one thigh, giving Jane an even more explicit view of the heavy sac of his testicles and the thick root of his penis where it joined his body.

Her mouth went dry. This was insane. She was a historian. She wrote papers on Roman trade routes. And now a living, breathing, half-cocked gladiator was bleeding out in her favorite reading chair. She had to get a grip.

“I’ll get water. And bandages,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Aquam. Et fasciae. Don’t move.”

He opened his eyes and watched her back away toward the door. He said nothing, but his gaze was a physical touch, following her every step. The immediate danger had passed, but a different kind of tension now filled the room—something heavier, more complex. He was her prisoner, her patient, her impossible guest. And he was a man who looked at her as if he was deciding not if he would take her, but when. A fragile truce had been struck, not of words, but of mutual assessment and a shared, shocking unreality.

Jane backed out of the study, her heart still hammering against her ribs. In the hallway, she leaned against the wall, dragging in a shaky breath. This isn't real. It's a hallucination. A psychotic break. But the coppery smell of his blood that clung to the air and the dark, wet stain she could see on her rug from the doorway were irrefutably real.

She pushed herself off the wall and hurried to the upstairs bathroom, her movements jerky and automated. She grabbed the plastic first-aid kit from under the sink, along with a stack of clean washcloths. In the kitchen, she filled a bowl with warm water, her hands trembling so badly that water sloshed over the sides. What are you doing, Jane? a voice screamed in her head. You have a wounded, half-naked gladiator in your study. You should be calling the police, or a psychiatric hospital. But who would she call? And what would she say?

When she returned to the study, he hadn't moved. He was exactly where she’d left him, slumped in the armchair, his head tilted back. His eyes were open, though, and they tracked her with unnerving intensity as she crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside him. The Persian rug was soft under her knees. The position felt strangely submissive, placing her head at the level of his thigh. She was acutely aware of the thin leather strap digging into the flesh of his groin, the heavy bulge of his genitals mere inches from her face. The scent of him was overwhelming here—sweat, blood, and a deep, musky maleness that was utterly primal.

“Hoc… hoc urere potest,” she stammered, holding up an antiseptic wipe. This might sting.

He just grunted, his eyes never leaving her face. She took it as consent. With a deep breath, she reached out and gently peeled his hand away from the gash on his side. His skin was hot and coarse, covered in a fine layer of grime. His fingers were calloused, his nails short and dirty. Under her touch, a muscle in his abdomen clenched into a hard ridge.

She leaned in closer to see the wound properly. It was a clean slice, deep but not life-threatening, she hoped. The edges were already beginning to look angry and inflamed. Her hair fell forward, brushing against the hard plane of his stomach, and she saw his entire body go rigid. She quickly tucked the stray strands behind her ear, her face burning.

Dipping a cloth in the warm water, she began to clean the area around the wound, her touch as gentle as she could manage. She wiped away the mixture of dried blood and arena dust, revealing the tanned, scarred skin beneath. He winced, a sharp intake of breath hissing between his teeth, but he didn't pull away. With every pass of the cloth, her fingers brushed against the taut skin of his hip, the hard line of his obliques. The sheer, condensed power in his frame was breathtaking.

As she worked, her eyes kept snagging on the subligaculum. The dampness from her cloth was close to the edge of the leather, and she could see the fabric darkening slightly. Her focus was supposed to be on the wound, but the proximity of his cock was a magnetic, terrifying distraction. It was thick even in repose, a heavy, intimidating length of flesh straining the confines of the worn leather. As she continued her ministrations, her knuckles brushing the top of his thigh, she saw it happen. The bulge shifted. It thickened, swelling against the leather, the distinct ridge of the glans becoming more prominent, pushing forward like a captive creature stirring in its lair. His cock was hardening. Not fully, not aggressively, but with a slow, undeniable arousal.

A jolt went through her, sharp and electric. He was getting hard from her touch. From her care. Her breath hitched, and she risked a glance up at his face. His jaw was clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. His eyes were hooded, dark with a mixture of pain and something else—a raw, possessive hunger that made her stomach clench. He knew that she knew.

Her own body responded before her mind could protest, a treacherous, molten heat pooling between her legs. She quickly finished cleaning the wound, her hands shaking again for an entirely different reason. She pressed a sterile gauze pad against the cut and began to wrap a roll of bandage around his torso, her arms circling his lean waist. For a few moments, she was pressed against him, her cheek near the solid wall of his chest, her breasts brushing his arm. She could feel the heat radiating off him, hear the low, rough rumble of his breathing.

She secured the bandage and pulled back, her heart thudding. The air was thick with what had just passed between them. The truce had shifted. It was no longer just about survival; it was charged with a crude, dangerous current of lust.

“Cibum,” she said, her voice husky. She stood up, needing the distance. “Et vestimenta.” Food. And clothes.

He watched her, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then lower. He shifted in the chair, a subtle adjustment to ease the pressure of his semi-erect cock against the leather. “Vinum?” he asked, his voice a low rasp. Wine?

A faint, hysterical laugh escaped her. Of course, he wanted wine. “I think I have some,” she replied in English, then corrected herself. “Habeo.”

She fled the room again, not just to get him food and clothes, but to escape the suffocating intensity of his presence. She brought back a plate of cheese and bread, a glass of Merlot, and a pair of her own grey sweatpants and a t-shirt—the only things she could think of that might fit him.

She set the plate and glass on the table beside him. He eyed the food with suspicion before picking up a piece of cheese and eating it in one bite. Then he drained half the glass of wine. He looked at the clothes she held out, a deep frown creasing his brow.

“Tua?” he asked, gesturing to the soft garments. Yours?

“They will have to do for now,” she said. “You can’t stay in… that.” She gestured vaguely toward his groin.

He looked down at his blood-stained loincloth, then back at her. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. It didn’t reach his eyes. Without a word, he reached for the knot at his hip. A fragile peace had been brokered, built on antiseptic wipes and a glass of wine, but as he prepared to undress in the middle of her study, Jane knew the terms of their engagement were already becoming terrifyingly complex.

He worked the knot with practiced ease, and the blood-stiffened leather fell away, pooling on the floor around his ankles. Jane’s breath caught in her throat. She had seen his body in statues, in frescoes, but the reality of it was a visceral shock. He was completely naked now, standing in the warm glow of her reading lamp like a bronze god brought to life. Scars, dozens of them, crisscrossed his chest, his abdomen, his powerful thighs—some thin and white, others puckered and angry red. They were a map of a life of violence she could barely comprehend.

Her eyes, against all scholarly and self-preservation instincts, were drawn lower. His cock, which had been semi-aroused moments before, was now fully, magnificently hard. It jutted out from a nest of dark, curling hair, thick and long, the head a deep, angry purple, glistening with a bead of clear fluid at the slit. It was a weapon in its own right, unapologetic and brutally male. He stood there, legs slightly apart, making no move to cover himself, his gaze locked on hers, challenging her to look, to react. He wanted her to see him, to see what he was.

A wave of heat washed through her, so intense it made her dizzy. The academic part of her brain was frantically cataloging details—the musculature, the evidence of a hard life—but the woman in her was simply, terrifyingly, aroused.

“The clothes,” she managed to say, her voice a strained whisper. She held out the sweatpants and t-shirt like a shield.

Marcus glanced down at the soft grey cotton, then back at her, a look of profound disdain on his face. He took them from her, his fingers brushing hers, a spark of contact that shot straight to her groin. He examined the sweatpants, pulling at the elastic waistband as if it were some strange, flimsy trap. With a grunt of contempt, he pulled them on. They were too short, ending mid-calf, and tight across his powerful ass and thighs, but they covered him. He ignored the t-shirt, tossing it onto the chair.

The next few days were a masterclass in surrealism. Jane tried to explain her world, and Marcus treated her explanations with a mixture of childlike wonder and warrior’s contempt. The light switch was the first miracle. He flicked it on and off a dozen times, his eyes wide, before declaring it weak sorcery. “Magia minor,” he grunted, unimpressed that such power could be wielded with the flick of a finger.

The bathroom was a greater challenge. He stared at the toilet as if it were a malevolent porcelain oracle. She explained its function in clumsy Latin, feeling her cheeks burn. He refused to use it at first, clearly preferring the garden until she physically blocked his path, her arms crossed. He eventually conceded, but the sound of the flush sent him lunging for the sword he no longer had.

The shower was the true nexus of fascination and conflict. He was filthy, covered in grime and dried blood, and the bandage on his side needed changing. The concept of a Roman bath was familiar to him, but this—this small, white-tiled box that rained hot water from the ceiling—was deeply suspicious.

“It is clean water,” she insisted, standing in the bathroom doorway while he stood naked inside the stall, eyeing the showerhead. “Aqua munda. Et calida.”

He grunted, unconvinced. “Unde?” From where?

She had no Latin word for a municipal water heater. “Magia,” she said, defeated. Magic.

He scoffed, but the allure of hot water was too strong. Jane reached past him, her arm brushing the cold tile on one side and the searing heat of his skin on the other. Her fingers trembled as she turned the knob. Water hissed out. Marcus flinched back, his hand instinctively going to his side. When the spray turned from cold to hot, steaming in the small space, his eyes widened. He cautiously stuck a hand into the stream, then his whole arm. A low sound of pleasure rumbled in his chest.

Jane started to back away, intending to give him privacy, but his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was like iron. “Tu," he commanded, his voice low and gravelly. You. He pulled her closer, until she was standing on the bathmat just outside the spray, the steam clinging to her clothes, her hair. He wanted her to watch.

He turned his back to her and stepped fully under the water, tilting his head back with a guttural sigh as it sluiced through his matted hair and down his scarred back. Jane stood frozen, her heart hammering. The water ran in rivulets down the deep groove of his spine, over the taut, powerful curves of his glutes, and down his corded hamstring muscles. She watched, mesmerized, as he lathered the bar of soap she’d given him and began to wash. He scrubbed his skin with a raw, efficient energy, his movements economical and powerful.

When he turned to face her again, his cock was fully erect, slick with water and soap, bobbing with the motion of his body. He was looking at her, his eyes dark and intense through the steam. He wasn’t just washing; he was putting on a show. A display of ownership. He soaped his chest, then moved the bar down his flat, ridged stomach. His hand closed around the base of his thick, hard cock and he began to stroke himself, slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving hers.

Jane couldn’t breathe. She should have run, slammed the door, anything. But she was rooted to the spot, her thighs clenching together as a slick heat bloomed between them. She watched his hand move up and down the length of his shaft, watched his balls tighten, watched the muscles in his jaw clench with pleasure. It was the most explicit, dominant act she had ever witnessed, a silent declaration that he would take his pleasure when and where he wanted, and she would bear witness.

He finished abruptly, rinsing himself off before turning off the water. He stepped out of the shower, dripping, magnificent, and utterly unashamed. He took the towel from her nerveless fingers, his eyes holding a triumphant glint. This was his world now, his small empire, and she was its most intriguing and perplexing subject.

The dynamic was set. He was fascinated by the refrigerator—the “arca frigida”—and the television—the “fenestra magica”—but he held the world they represented in contempt. It was a world of soft men and flimsy comforts. He would spend hours watching nature documentaries, his body tensed as he watched lions take down a wildebeest, only to sneer at the commercials featuring men in suits selling cars.

Jane found herself trapped between the roles of zookeeper, historian, and unwilling object of desire. To understand how to send him back—if that was even what she wanted anymore, a terrifying thought—she knew she would have to risk activating the device again. Alone in her study late one night, with the sound of Marcus’s heavy footsteps pacing in the living room below, she stared at the strange, silent astrolabe. She had to try to replicate the energy surge. She had to understand its magic. Ignoring the cold knot of fear in her stomach, she reached out a trembling hand.

Her fingers hovered over the cool, unfamiliar metal of the device. It sat on her desk, inert and silent, looking for all the world like an ornate, oversized astrolabe. But she knew better. She knew what it had done. Downstairs, she could hear Marcus pacing, a caged tiger in her small suburban home. The memory of him in the shower—slick with water, his hand wrapped around his thick, hard cock, his eyes burning into hers—was seared onto her mind. She could still feel the phantom heat, the steam, the raw, possessive power of his gaze. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the dark, glistening head of his shaft, the slow, deliberate strokes of his hand. The memory alone was enough to make her clench her thighs together, a wet heat gathering in her panties.

He was a problem. A dangerous, magnificent, impossible problem. And this device was the cause and, hopefully, the solution.

“Come on,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “What are you?”

She traced the interlocking circles, the strange, non-terrestrial constellations etched into its surface. The first time, there had been a power surge from a nearby lightning strike. She couldn’t summon a storm, but maybe the device didn’t need that much of a jolt. Maybe it just needed… a connection. An intent.

Taking a deep breath, she placed her hands on it, palms flat against the cool metal. She closed her eyes, trying to focus, to push her will into the object. Show me. Show me how you work. She thought of Marcus, of the impossible reality of his presence. She pictured the vortex of light, the feeling of the air tearing apart.

For a moment, nothing happened. The house was quiet save for Marcus’s heavy footfalls below. Disappointment washed over her. It was just a strange piece of metal after all. A fluke.

Then the lights in her study flickered. Once. Twice. They dimmed, casting the room in a weak, yellow gloom before surging back to full brightness. And under her palms, the device began to hum.

It was a low, resonant frequency that vibrated not just through her hands, but through her entire body. It bypassed her ears and went straight to her bones, a deep, invasive thrum that seemed to center itself low in her belly. A gasp escaped her lips. The hum intensified, and the air in the room grew thick, crackling with static electricity that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. The sensation was overwhelming, a raw, alien energy pouring into her. It wasn't just power; it was violation. It felt like a thousand invisible fingers probing every inch of her, inside and out.

Her nipples hardened into tight, aching points against the fabric of her shirt. A slick, hot wetness flooded her panties, a purely physical reaction to the intrusive energy that was thrumming between her legs, making her clit throb with a painful, unwanted pleasure. Her breath came in ragged pants as the device’s vibration seemed to find a rhythm, a deep, grinding pulse that mimicked the thrust of a cock. She felt her hips want to move, to rock against the invisible force that was stimulating her so intensely.

The study door burst open. Marcus stood there, framed in the doorway, his body tensed for battle. He was wearing only the too-tight sweatpants, his bare chest a canvas of scars in the flickering light. His eyes, wide with alarm, took in the scene: the humming, glowing device, the distorted air, and her. He saw her flushed face, her parted lips, the way her body trembled. His gaze dropped to her crotch, where the damp fabric of her jeans clung to her, and a dark, possessive fury entered his eyes. He thought the magic was taking her, claiming her.

“Jane!” he roared, taking a step into the room.

But before he could reach her, the energy focus shifted. The humming in the study lessened, but a new sound erupted from downstairs. It was a deafening shriek of tearing metal and splintering wood, followed by a concussive boom that shook the entire house. The focal point of the temporal rift wasn't in the study this time. It was in the kitchen.

A brilliant, chaotic flash of blue-white light pulsed from the hallway, so bright it was blinding even from a room away. It was followed by a guttural, terrifying roar. It was a sound of pure rage and bloodlust, a battle cry that spoke of frozen seas and longships, of axe and shield and slaughter. It was a sound that had not been heard on this continent in a thousand years.

Jane stumbled back from the desk, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of the device’s energy, her cunt still slick and throbbing. Marcus, his possessive rage instantly shifting to warrior’s focus, spun toward the sound. He crouched low, a predator scenting a rival challenger on his territory. They stared at each other for a split second, their private war forgotten in the face of a new, violent intrusion. Then they both turned their heads towards the kitchen, towards the impossible, savage sound echoing through their fragile, modern world.

They moved together, a strange and mismatched pair, down the short hallway toward the kitchen. Jane’s legs were unsteady, her panties soaked and sticking uncomfortably to her skin, her body still humming with a phantom, violating pleasure. Marcus moved ahead of her, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He was a creature of violence, and he was moving toward a sound he understood far better than any humming device or magical window.

The kitchen was a disaster zone. The back door, a heavy oak panel with a reinforced deadbolt, had been blown inward, torn from its hinges as if hit by a battering ram. The frame was splintered, the drywall around it cracked and crumbling. Her cheerful yellow linoleum floor was scuffed and gouged, and her sturdy pine kitchen table was split clean in two, the pieces lying amid a wreckage of shattered ceramic mugs and scattered silverware.

And in the center of it all, stood the cause.

He was immense. Taller than Marcus by a head, broader in the shoulder, a true giant of a man built of raw, brutal power. Long, thick braids of dirty blonde hair, interwoven with leather strips and small metal rings, hung past his shoulders. A wild, untrimmed beard, caked with something dark and sticky, covered the lower half of his face. He wore a tunic of coarse, dark wool over leather breeches, both stained with grime, sweat, and a shocking amount of fresh, crimson blood. A heavy fur cloak was slung over one shoulder, and thick leather bracers protected his forearms.

But it was the axe that drew Jane’s eye and stopped the air in her lungs. It wasn’t a decorative piece. It was a Dane axe, a bearded blade on a long haft, its edge honed to a wicked sharpness. The steel was dark and stained, and chunks of gore—flesh and hair—clung to the beard of the blade. He held it with a casual familiarity that was more terrifying than any aggressive posture. His knuckles were skinned and bloody. The air was thick with his smell: woodsmoke, cold sea salt, sweat, leather, and the hot, coppery stench of spilled blood.

He stood panting, his massive chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and disoriented. He looked around the strange, brightly lit room—at the gleaming metal of the sink, the smooth white face of the refrigerator—with a furious confusion. He was a man ripped from the height of a berserker rage, from the chaos of a coastal raid, and dropped into a sterile, suburban kitchen.

He let out another roar, this one less of a battle cry and more of a frustrated, defiant challenge to the unfamiliar space. He spoke in a guttural tongue she recognized instantly from her studies—Old Norse.

“Hver er á seiðrinn? Sýndu þik, á meðan ek ríf þessa höll í sundr!” Who is this sorcerer? Show yourself, before I tear this hall apart!

He punctuated the threat by swinging the axe, embedding it effortlessly into the door of her refrigerator. The metal screamed and buckled. Freon hissed into the air.

Jane felt a whimper escape her throat. This was not Marcus. Marcus was a professional killer, disciplined, contained in his own way. This man was a force of nature, a storm of violence given human form. The last vestiges of the device’s arousal curdled in her stomach, replaced by a cold, primal terror that threatened to buckle her knees.

Marcus moved past her, stepping fully into the kitchen’s entrance. He didn’t look at the destruction. His entire being was focused on the intruder. He saw the size, the weapon, the bloodlust. He saw a barbarian, a Germanus from the cold forests, a savage foe. A flicker of something that looked like grim pleasure crossed his face. Here, at last, was a fight he understood.

The Viking’s head snapped toward the movement. His wild blue eyes locked onto Marcus. He saw the Roman’s scarred, muscular physique, the coiled tension in his stance, the undisguised killing intent in his dark gaze. He saw another warrior. An enemy. A snarl twisted his lips, revealing teeth stained yellow and brown. He wrenched his axe from the ruined refrigerator with a screech of tortured metal, hefting it easily, balancing its weight in his hands.

“Svo, tröllið sendir þjón sinn,” the Viking grunted, his voice a low rumble. So, the troll sends its champion.

He took a heavy step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Marcus didn’t back down. He lowered himself into a wrestler’s crouch, his hands open, his body a tightly wound spring of muscle and sinew, ready to explode forward. The air in the small house grew thick, charged not with temporal energy, but with the ancient, suffocating promise of bloodshed. They were two apex predators from different millennia, squared off over a shattered kitchen table, ready to tear each other apart.

The Viking let out a guttural bellow and charged. It wasn't a feint or a tactical advance; it was a human avalanche, an explosion of pure, murderous intent. The Dane axe swung in a devastating horizontal arc, a blur of stained steel aimed to cleave Marcus in two at the waist. The air whistled.

Marcus moved with the fluid grace of the arena. He didn't retreat; he dropped, his body sinking so low his knuckles brushed the linoleum. The axe blade passed inches over his head with a sound like tearing silk, connecting with the wall oven Jane had saved for months to buy. The impact was catastrophic. The glass door shattered into a thousand glittering cubes, and the axe blade bit deep into the metal housing with a godawful shriek of protest.

For a heartbeat, the axe was stuck. It was all the opening Marcus needed. He exploded upward from his crouch like a panther, closing the distance. He ignored the axe, his entire focus on the man. He slammed his shoulder into the Viking’s midsection, a battering ram of solid muscle. The air rushed from Bjorn’s lungs in a grunt of pained surprise. The sheer momentum of the gladiator’s charge drove the Viking back a step, then two, his fur-lined boots skidding on the slick floor.

Bjorn was a mountain, but Marcus was a force of leverage and brutal efficiency. He wrapped his arms around the Viking’s thick waist, locking his hands together, and heaved. This was his world: the clinch, the grapple, the test of strength and will at close quarters. He drove his head under Bjorn’s chin, forcing the bigger man’s head back, trying to break his posture.

The Viking roared in fury, a sound that vibrated through Marcus’s skull. He abandoned the stuck axe and brought his colossal hands down on Marcus’s back, clubbing him with fists the size of small mallets. The blows landed with sickening, meaty thuds that would have broken a lesser man’s ribs. Marcus grunted, his grip tightening, his teeth bared in a grimace of pain and determination. He could feel the raw, untamed power in the Viking’s body, a stark contrast to the trained strength of the men he’d fought in the ludus.

They became a whirlwind of destruction. Staggering sideways, they crashed into the island countertop. A bowl of fruit exploded, sending apples and oranges rolling across the floor. The butcher block splintered under their combined weight. Bjorn, using his height advantage, got a hand free and grabbed a fistful of Marcus’s dark hair, yanking his head back violently. With his other hand, he drove a thumb toward Marcus’s eye.

Marcus twisted his head away just in time, the thumb gouging a bloody furrow along his cheekbone. He snarled, a feral sound, and bit down hard on the thick muscle of the Viking’s shoulder. Bjorn howled, a high, pained shriek this time, and his grip loosened. Marcus used the moment to wrench himself free, shoving the Viking away with all his might.

Bjorn stumbled back, clutching his bleeding shoulder, his blue eyes blazing with a hatred so pure it was elemental. Marcus stood panting, blood trickling from his cheek, a wild grin spreading across his face. He was bleeding, he was fighting, he was alive.

This brief separation was all the Viking needed. With a roar, he lunged back toward the ruined oven and tore his axe free with a wrenching screech of metal. He turned, the weapon now back in his hand, and the grim pleasure on Marcus’s face vanished, replaced by coiled readiness.

Jane watched, paralyzed, from the doorway. Her kitchen, her sanctuary of quiet morning coffees and solitary dinners, was being systematically demolished by two men who belonged in history books. The air was thick with the scent of their sweat, of blood, and the ozone-like tang of spilled Freon. This couldn't happen. She couldn't let them kill each other on her floor.

Her eyes darted around, searching for something, anything. And then she saw it. Mounted on the wall next to the pantry, just as the fire code required. The red cylinder. The fire extinguisher.

Bjorn raised the axe high, preparing for a final, overhead chop that would split Marcus’s skull like a melon. Marcus braced himself, snatching a shard of the broken pine table from the floor, a pitiful dagger against the Viking’s weapon.

Time slowed. Jane moved. She didn’t think; she reacted. She scrambled to the wall, her hands fumbling with the bracket. The heavy cylinder came free. She remembered the instructions from a workplace safety seminar years ago. Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Her fingers, slick with nervous sweat, found the metal pin. She yanked it free.

As Bjorn’s axe began its descent, Jane screamed, a raw, incoherent sound of fury and fear. She aimed the nozzle at their faces and squeezed the handle with all her strength.

A thick, blinding cloud of white chemical powder erupted from the extinguisher, engulfing both men in an instant. It wasn't fire or a weapon they understood. It was a sudden, choking blizzard, a cold, acrid magic that stole the air and stung their eyes.

Bjorn’s killing blow faltered, the axe falling harmlessly to the floor with a loud clatter. He choked, stumbling back, clawing at his face, great, gasping coughs wracking his massive frame. Marcus, equally blinded and suffocating, dropped his makeshift weapon and staggered away, rubbing furiously at his burning eyes, spitting a foul white paste from his mouth.

The fight was over. The primal rage was snuffed out by a blast of modern safety equipment. Jane stood between them, her knuckles white on the extinguisher's handle, her chest heaving. The two warriors, one Roman, one Norse, were reduced to coughing, spluttering figures covered head-to-toe in a fine white dust, looking utterly bewildered. They stared at her, then at each other, the murderous intent in their eyes replaced by a stunned, wary confusion. In the center of her ruined kitchen, surrounded by the wreckage of their battle, Jane held the only power that mattered.

The white powder settled like a foul, chemical snow over everything. It coated the splintered wood of the table, the shattered glass of the oven, and the two deadliest men Jane had ever seen. The silence that followed the chaos was profound, broken only by a trio of ragged, wheezing coughs.

Bjorn spat a white gob onto the floor, his blue eyes, red-rimmed and furious, peering at Jane through a mask of dust. He looked less like a fearsome warrior and more like a baker who’d had a catastrophic accident with a bag of flour. Marcus was in a similar state, his dark skin turned a ghostly grey. He wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing the powder into a paste, his expression one of utter disbelief. They had been stopped, not by a superior weapon or a stronger arm, but by… a foul-tasting cloud.

The fire extinguisher felt immensely heavy in Jane’s arms. The adrenaline that had propelled her into action was beginning to ebb, leaving behind a tremor in her hands and a cold, hard knot of fury in her gut. Her kitchen was destroyed. Her life, which was already spiraling into insanity, had just been torn apart by a testosterone-fueled clash of centuries.

“Enough,” she said. Her voice came out as a croak, thick with chemical dust and rage. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder this time, the sound echoing in the ruined room. “ENOUGH!”

Both men flinched, their heads snapping toward her. It was the tone, more than the word. It was the voice of a woman who had been pushed past fear and into pure, undiluted rage.

She took a step forward, the nozzle of the extinguisher still pointed vaguely between them, a scepter of her newfound, desperate authority. “Nihil mori.” She pointed a trembling, powder-dusted finger at Marcus, her Latin sharp and clipped. “Nemo!” No one dies. She then swung her arm to point at the Viking. She didn’t know the Norse for it, so she used the simplest, most universal language she could. She drew her finger across her throat in a clear, unmistakable gesture. “NO.”

Bjorn’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he understood the gesture well enough. He glanced at the axe lying on the floor, then back at this small, shrieking woman who had blinded him with sorcery.

“In this house,” Jane continued, her voice gaining strength, “in hoc domo… in my hall… you do not kill each other.” She jabbed the extinguisher toward the wreckage around them. “You do not try to kill each other. You do not break my things trying to kill each other. This is my place. My territory. Meum!”

Marcus straightened up slowly, his dark eyes narrowed. He was appraising her in a new light. He had seen her as a strange, soft curiosity; a potential source of pleasure and comfort in this bewildering world. He had not seen this. This fury. This… command. In Rome, a woman who acted this way would be beaten or dismissed as hysterical. But this was not Rome, and she held the strange weapon that had humbled them both. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. It was not agreement, not submission, but an acknowledgement of the new terms. He would wait. He would watch.

Bjorn was less subtle. He let out a low growl, a rumble of defiance deep in his chest. “Þú ert norn…” he muttered, wiping at his eyes. You are a witch.

“I don’t care what you think I am,” Jane snapped, taking another step closer, right into his personal space. He towered over her, a reeking giant of sweat and leather, but she didn’t flinch. She looked directly up into his hostile, powder-rimmed eyes. “You are in my house. You will follow my rules. The first rule is: no killing.” She punctuated the last word by jabbing a finger hard into his sternum.

His muscles bunched under her touch. For a terrifying second, she thought he might just grab her, break her. His huge, calloused hand twitched at his side. The air crackled. She could feel the heat rolling off him, the barely contained violence. But he didn’t move. He looked past her, at Marcus, who was watching them both with a predator’s stillness. He looked at the strange, cold weapon in her hands. He looked at the utter, unwavering conviction in her eyes. It was the conviction of a shield-maiden defending her hall, and while he didn’t respect her gender, he understood the spirit. He snorted, a plume of white dust puffing from his nostrils, and took a half-step back. It was the closest he could come to a retreat.

The tension broke, or at least lessened, from a breaking point to a low simmer. Jane felt a wave of dizziness wash over her as the last of the adrenaline fled her body, leaving her weak-kneed and shaking. She had done it. She had faced down a Roman gladiator and a Viking berserker and lived. More than that, she had made them listen.

She lowered the fire extinguisher, the weight of it suddenly immense. She looked at the absolute disaster that was once her kitchen. Her heart sank, but the anger remained, a pilot light of resolve. She was no longer just a historian who’d had a bizarre accident. She was the keeper of these men. Their anchor. Their warden.

“Now,” she said, her voice flat with exhaustion. “You two are going to clean this up.”