Whispers In The Quiet - Ahkmenrah x Reader
The museum was quieter than usual tonight.
No footsteps echoed from Larry’s patrols. No dinosaur thumps. Just the occasional whisper of wind against the glass roof, and the soft, steady rustle of fabric as Ahkmenrah moved through the hallways, golden robes trailing behind him like memories he couldn't quite escape.
You were sitting alone in the Egyptian wing, tucked in the shadow of a marble pillar, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. You hadn’t meant to stay this late. But the storm outside had turned violent- hail thrashed the windows and thunder cracked like cannon fire. Somewhere deep in your chest, old panic stirred.
And you couldn’t go home. Not yet.
Ahkmenrah found you there, shivering- not from the cold, but something older. Something worse.
His expression softened when he saw you. “Y/n?”
You blinked up at him, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. “I’m fine,” you lied quickly, like a reflex.
Ahkmenrah’s brows drew together. He knelt in front of you, his hands gentle but firm as he reached for yours. “Please,” he said, voice low. “Do not lie to me. Not with eyes that haunted.”
You didn’t mean to fall apart. Not really. But there was something about him- his calm, his warmth, the way he always looked at you like you were someone worth saving- that cracked the dam wide open.
“It was just a memory,” you whispered, ashamed. “One I thought I buried.”
He didn’t ask for details. Not yet. Instead, he sat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you in a way no one else ever had. “Memories buried alive,” he murmured, “have a way of clawing to the surface.”
You leaned into him then, and he wrapped his arm around you carefully, like you were made of glass. He smelled like sandalwood and something ancient- something holy. “They can’t hurt you here,” he said. “Not while I breathe.”
You looked up at him. “But you don’t. Breathe, I mean.”
He smiled faintly, brushing a thumb along your cheek. “Then let this heart beat for you instead.”
In that still moment- bathed in stormlight and silence- you let yourself believe it was true. That safety could be found in the arms of a boy who’d died thousands of years ago, but somehow made you feel more alive than anything else ever had.
____________________________________
The museum changed after that night.
Not in the way it looked, but in the way it felt.
You started staying late more often- not always out of fear, but because of the peace you found there. And because of him. Ahkmenrah was always waiting, always watching you with that unreadable expression that somehow said everything.
You talked for hours. About his past—his childhood under the sun-scorched sky of ancient Thebes, the loneliness of immortality, and the burden of being born into power. About your present- what haunted you, what kept you awake at night, the way some scars never really faded even if no one else could see them.
One evening, he brushed your hair behind your ear, and your breath caught at the softness of it. He didn’t pull away.
"You fear being touched," he said quietly, not as an accusation, but a truth laid bare between you.
You nodded. “Most people don’t… mean it. When they touch.”
"I always mean it," he whispered, as though making a vow.
The intimacy grew in silence, in the way he sat closer each night, shoulders brushing, fingers grazing yours. One night, you leaned your head against his chest and listened to nothing- but you felt the warmth of him, and it was enough.
"You smell like old paper and cinnamon," you murmured into the linen of his robes.
"And you my dear," he said, nose brushing your hair, "smell like rain just before it falls."
You didn't kiss him then, though the air pulsed with the want of it. You didn’t need to. His hand threaded through yours and stayed there until the morning light forced him back into stillness.
A week later, he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed like a prayer.
“If I could choose to be alive again, just once more,” he said softly, lips barely a breath from yours, “I’d choose it to be with you.”
Your hands curled in his robes, grounding yourself in his presence. “Even knowing it would end?”
He opened his eyes. “Especially knowing it would end.”
And that night, you kissed him-finally- slow and tentative, like something precious you weren’t sure you were allowed to have. His lips were warmer than you expected, reverent in the way they claimed yours, and he held you like the world had finally stopped spinning too fast.
____________________________________
The nights after blurred into stolen touches and whispered laughter. You fell asleep once on the stone bench in his wing, curled in his lap, and when you woke to find his arms still around you, tears pricked your eyes.
"You don't have to protect me, you know," you whispered, voice cracking.
"I don't have to," he agreed. "But I want to."
____________________________________
The museum was empty again. Larry had left early. You wandered, restless, until you found yourself- as always -drawn to the golden light of the Egyptian wing.
Ahkmenrah was already there, waiting as though he felt you coming.
You weren’t sure when the way he looked at you started to burn. But lately, every glance carried weight. And tonight, as your eyes met, something unspoken passed between you. Something heavier than silence.
“You were with him,” he said after a moment. Not accusing- just… quiet.
You tilted your head. “With who?”
“The guard. The new one. He speaks to you like he knows you well.”
You stepped closer. “He offered me coffee. I said no.”
Ahkmenrah’s jaw tensed, then relaxed. “You did not have to explain.”
There was something electric in the space between you now. Something aching to break.
“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” he admitted. “As though he’s entitled to your smile. As though he could ever understand what you’ve given me.”
You reached up, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “He doesn’t know me. Not the way you do.”
That broke him. His hand cradled your cheek, and then he kissed you- slow at first, but filled with weeks of restraint unraveling. His lips were soft, reverent, almost trembling with the effort to hold back.
You tangled your fingers in his robes and pressed closer. His hands explored you with sacred patience- touching, not taking. Every brush of skin asked permission. Every kiss answered yes.
When he lifted you into his lap and wrapped you in his warmth, you melted against him. Your shirt slid from your shoulder, and his lips followed- down your collarbone, reverent, worshipful.
“You are not mine to claim beloved,” he murmured against your skin, “but I would give up eternity to be yours.”
“Then be mine,” you whispered. “Just for tonight.”
His eyes met yours- dark, golden, eternal. “Then I am yours.”
You made love in the quiet stillness of ancient stone. No rush. No demands. Just gentle, aching devotion.
He held you like a wish. You touched him like a secret. And when you both trembled in each other’s arms, there was no past or future. Only now.
And when dawn threatened to steal him back, he buried his face in your hair and whispered:
“Even in stillness, I will remember the way you loved me.”
The next night, Ahkmenrah didn’t meet you in the usual spot.
You wandered the museum in silence, growing more uneasy with each empty hallway. He was always there. Always waiting.
You finally found him standing alone before an ancient mural- a faded depiction of Ra guiding the sun across the sky. He didn’t turn when you approached.
“I thought you’d gone,” you said softly.
“I did not trust myself to see you yet.”
That caught you off guard. “Why?”
He closed his eyes. “Because today I watched him touch your arm again. Laugh with you like he was already inside your story.”
You reached for him. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean into it either.
“And I hated it,” he said- voice shaking, lower now. “Not with fire, but with fear. Fear that I am just a dream to you. Something you’ll wake from one day and forget.”
You pressed your forehead to his back, your voice trembling. “You’re the only thing that’s felt real to me in years, darling.”
Finally, he turned- slowly, reverently- and took your face in both hands.
“Then let me be real to you,” he whispered. “Let me show you that I am more than gold and silk and memory.”
And when he kissed you this time, it was deeper. Possessive. Not in a way that took, but in a way that held- like he was claiming space in you that no one else had ever been gentle enough to reach.
You barely made it to the shadows before his mouth found your neck, and your back met the cool stone wall of the temple. He kissed you like a man desperate to carve himself into your bones. His hands found your waist, your hips, your lower back- holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“You are not his,” he said against your skin. “You are not anyone’s. But tonight… you are mine.”
Your fingers tugged at his robe, baring the warmth of his chest, the place where a heart should beat. “I’ve always been yours.”
He made love to you again there, slow but unrelenting- grounded not in lust, but need. He worshipped you like something sacred, whispered your name like a prayer, and touched you like a man asking the gods to spare him this one human joy.
And afterward, as he held you on the cold stone floor beneath carvings older than time, he spoke so softly you almost missed it.
“I was a pharaoh once. A god to my people. But only with you… have I known what it means to kneel.
____________________________________
It began with the Tablet.
Or rather, the moment it cracked.
No one saw it happen. One morning, the tablet in the Hall of Conquerors had simply split clean down the middle. Not shattered. Not broken in chaos. But parted- like something old and tired had finally exhaled.
A cut bloomed across his palm when he picked up the broken half, crimson bright and impossible.
He stared at it in disbelief. Breathless.
Because he was breathing.
The museum pulsed with strange energy that night- electric, frayed at the edges. The relics hummed with a thousand silenced voices, and all around you, magic seemed to wilt gently back into the earth.
And when you found him- Ahkmenrah was standing under the moonlight in the Temple of Ra, barefoot, eyes wide, chest rising and falling like a man discovering the ocean for the first time.
“I can feel my heart,” he whispered, tears in his voice. “It hurts.”
You stepped forward, shaking. “That’s what being alive feels like sometimes.”
He reached for your hand. This time, the warmth was real. No illusion. No borrowed magic.
“I don’t know why,” he said, fingers trembling, “but the curse- it's gone. The gods… they gave me back my life.”
He pulled you close, hands cradling your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours like he was anchoring himself there.
“I am mortal again. And I will die someday,” he whispered. “But for now… I get to live. With you.”
And this time, when he kissed you, there was no eternity hanging over it. Just time- ticking, sacred, fleeting. A kiss that tasted of rain and cinnamon and new beginnings.
____________________________________
Ahkmenrah moved in to your apartment three months later. The gold jewelry stayed, but the robes gave way to jeans and soft cotton shirts. He learned how to use a toaster with suspicious awe, but swore coffee was still inferior to Nile spice tea.
He got his own toothbrush. And took his first hot shower. He watched old movies with the reverence of a scholar, then sobbed through Wall-E like it was divine scripture.
You built a life together slowly- quietly. He took classes in ancient history under a fake name. You found a rhythm in shared grocery lists and tangled limbs under patchwork quilts.
Sometimes he woke up in tears, hands clutching at a life that was no longer endless.
And sometimes you’d touch his face in the dark and whisper, “I’m still here.”
He’d smile, broken and golden, and pull you to his chest where his heart beat- soft and real- against your ear.
You never stopped visiting the museum. Sometimes, the two of you would walk the halls at night with a flashlight, his fingers brushing ancient memories carved in stone. The world he left behind never left him. But it didn’t own him anymore.
One spring morning, years later, he knelt before you in a sunlit garden, hands shaking, and asked, “Will you be my queen in this life?”
And you whispered yes into his mouth like a promise made between stars.
____________________________________
Because sometimes… the gods do listen.
And sometimes… immortality isn't living forever.
It’s loving without fear.
Together, you learned to do both.
And this time-this-time—it was enough.
____________________________________
The morning light spilled across the kitchen like honey, slow and golden.
Ahkmenrah stood at the stove, barefoot, his hair tied back in a loose knot. He wore an old band tee that clung to his frame and a pair of sweatpants that should’ve been retired months ago. You leaned against the doorway and watched him- marveling, as you always did, at how someone once wrapped in divine silk now hummed off-key while flipping pancakes.
You snuck up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist.
“You’re burning them again,” you murmured into his shoulder.
“I am not,” he said, but he flipped one over and winced. “That one was a sacrificial offering.”
You laughed and kissed the base of his neck. “The gods accept your tribute.”
He turned in your arms, still holding the spatula like a scepter. “And what of my queen? What does she demand in return for her endless patience?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Coffee. And a cupcake.”
He grinned, eyes crinkling. “Your wish is- finally-within the scope of my mortal capabilities.”
You kissed him, slow and familiar, your hands finding the soft cotton of his shirt and the steadiness of the heart beating beneath.
This was the future you never dared imagine back when he was gold and stone and sorrow.
A future where time ticked softly instead of looming.
Where he aged slowly, beautifully- lines beginning to frame the corners of his eyes, smile-worn and loved.
Where you fought over closet space and took Sunday walks and kissed each other through dishes and deadlines and doubts.
Where he got sick sometimes, and you made soup. Where he stayed up with you when your nightmares came back. Where you reached for each other in the dark, and found each other every time.
And as he handed you a burnt pancake on a chipped plate, winking as though it were treasure, you thought:
Not the kind carved in stone.
But the kind made of morning breath and mismatched mugs, of whispered I love yous and soft laughter across shared pillows.
And when he caught you staring at him like you were still a little in awe, he smiled and said:
“You always look at me like I’ve hung the stars.”
You tucked yourself against his chest and whispered, “That’s because you’re the only miracle I’ve ever believed in.”
