#Military may stay

[eenochian]

the way this fandom treats characters is astounding. like y’all do realize that every single character is shitty, right? literally every last one. your blorbo is not an exception. no, “but my fave—” no exceptions. literally the only character that i can’t think of any issues with off the top of my head is farah.

[ayoyoungg]

the funniest thing about peak time is determining whether the group is nugu because of money/reseources/management or because the music sucks 🙃

[hind3en]

A photo from memories, captured in May 2023.

Everyone has a superhero. For any girl in the world, her superhero is her father.

He is our hero. He is a doctor. Before this ongoing genocide, he worked at Al-Shifa Hospital. He is a wonderful plastic surgeon, loves his work and is committed to it, to help people and relieve their pain.

When We were forced to be displaced to Al-Shifa Hospital at the beginning of the war, he was still committed to his work. He worked nonstop for 40 days, besides caring for his family, especially in these difficult times!

But unfortunately the occupation stormed and burned the hospital after We were forced to evacuate , raising white flags. We could not carry anything, just our souls. We fled to the south on foot. He carried his two children in his arms, and walked long distances for many kilometers during the afternoon among tanks and heavily armed soldiers, and even among decomposing corpses!

Finally, we reached the UNRWA school at Khan Yunis. He started working in Nasser Hospital, which the occupation also stormed and destroyed! Even when we were displaced, he was working.

All that happened did not stop him from performing his lofty job as a doctor. He has now returned to work in MOH hospitals to carry out operations of debridement and grafting of needy injured people, but he is alone, we are far from him.

He decided to protect us and made a decision to refuge in Egypt to be survived. While he stayed in Rafah before the beginning of the military operation there. Then he was forced to be displaced to Deir Al-Balah.

Every morning he goes to work at Nasser Hospital in Khan Yunis and returns to his tent in Deir Al- Balah in the evening all week.

Is this what we and he deserve?

We stay away from our hero and torn our family. While at the same time, he is putting himself in danger while saving innocent lives!

For your information, his profession is considered more dangerous than ever before, due to the occupation’s systematic policy of targeting hospitals and medical staff!

All the day, we are worried about him. May Allah save him. Moreover, there is no safe place.

We hope to reunite again, we want each other, we want our home and our dreams!

We need your help and support to meet our father again, reunite our family and rebuild our lives. Little matters! Your little means a lot to us.

Please, donate or reblog this with others.

Our story is here:

This was not our only tragic story in this genocide, every day was a struggle for survival!

Thanks!

🇵🇸🍉🇵🇸🍉🇵🇸🍉🇵🇸🍉

[tossawary]

One of my personal nitpicks for historical fantasy is a lack of servants, staff, subordinates, and... idk... subjects? Like, their absence is not... a total dealbreaker for me, depending on the situations the characters are in and whether or not I can just assume that other people are there in the background... but so many of the protagonists in historical fantasy stuff are higher-ranking (very often royalty), and/or have busy jobs, and/or have enormous houses that would necessitate having at least part-time staff.

Like, girl, you should have a maid! WHERE is your chaperone?! WHO is driving this carriage?! Where are your footmen? Are you trying to imply that a WEALTHY DUCHESS is taking a CAB?! You know that you probably have tenants, right? Where is your steward?! Where is your lawyer? Your accountant?! (Like, yeah, you're not going to have your lawyer living in your house, but you HAVE one, right???)

Or, man, you're supposed to be a military commander and you don't even have a single secretary?! Where is your SQUIRE?! (In the spirit of historical fiction, I am jumping wildly across time periods with every sentence here.) Man, I know you aren't looking after your own boots. Where are your GUARDS?! Who set up this tent for you?! Who is looking after your horse?! Who is making and carrying the incredibly valuable maps people are recklessly stabbing daggers into?!

SOMEONE has to be scrubbing these floors and delivering the mail and cooking the meals and doing laundry, and they're probably all DIFFERENT people! My dentist has at least three different receptionists and we can't even get ONE for our court wizard here? A sorcerer's apprentice to take notes? Someone like Sherlock Holmes could get away with just having a housekeeper and taking taxis, sure, but your character is supposed to be a KING?! Why is he answering his own front door? He's going to get assassinated. His SERVANTS should have SERVANTS.

Like, yes, I understand that a lot of servants in certain places at certain times were supposed to make their labor invisible, but there have always been servants who still had to interact directly with the masters of the house?! Yeah, there are potentially really messy ethics here, class divisions are bullshit, but I don't think that completely ignoring the reality that humans have ALWAYS been doing work for other humans is better than just including some well-paid and well-treated servants and employees? Because a complete absence of them, especially where logically for the worldbuilding there MUST be servants (and probably exploited servants, or worse, for some particular worldbuilds to work), often makes me think that your main characters just don't care enough to notice the "lower class" people or know their names.

Also, even Frodo Baggins had a gardener and Samwise Gamgee might be the best damn character in the story?! Sam saved the world?! Servants are PEOPLE. Servants are often the funniest and most interesting characters, tbh, with the most to say about a society and its workings (yes, Discworld is a very good book series, highly recommend), and also the joke of some romantic scene being carefully orchestrated by a stage crew of servants frantically diving into bushes to stay out of sight never gets old to me. Teamwork makes the dream work!

I don't want to gatekeep historical fiction, especially not historical fantasy, because the worlds don't necessarily have to conform to our own and may have magic and characters are often in very unique circumstances, but... sometimes I pick up a story and it's like... "Author, please tell me that you know there is a difference between a butler and a valet?!"

[joonieskinks]

Simon “please will you be my fake girlfriend” Riley

Simon couldn’t be happier for John. Finally, he’s met a woman whose head over heels for him, who will stick around during the hard times. The man deserves this, deserves her. It’s about time they got married after all.

Today is his wedding day, and Simon was actually delighted to receive an invite. Although he had to dress up a bit for the event and all, he didn’t mind. It was for one of his greatest friends, and the energy in the room was so positive, so supportive. He can honestly say he felt happy to be here.

That was until he spotted eager mamas eyeing him at the reception, no doubt coming over to set him up with their daughters. Nope- he was not having that whatsoever. He went into full panic mode, trying to avoid their eyes, their presence that was ever closing in on him. Simon turned straight around and made his way to the bar where he found you.

“Gosh, how long does it take to find white wine-?” You complain under your breath before the handsome stranger from the corner of your eye interrupts you.

“Pleasewillyoubemyfakegirlfriend?” The rather tall man asks frantically as your eyes finally meet. Yours, rather confused, and his, rather desperate.

“Uh- sure?” You laugh nervously as you sip your wine that just arrived.

“Great- M’ Simon, I’m from England, I work in the military, we’ve been together six months, ‘right love?.” He explains rather quickly, eyes darting back and forth between you and the mamas rapidly approaching.

But you get the message.

“You can call me that “love” of yours, I work for the government if you should know and you have to act like you want me for this to work, Simon.” You pull him down by his tie to whisper in his ear.

“If you want them to stay away, touch me.” You kiss his cheek and pull away, performing with a laugh.

It disarms Simon how effortless you make this seem, how quick witted you are - this mysterious yet willing woman at the bar. You’ve truly peaked his interest and he’s so grateful. So yea, absolutely he will touch you, a gorgeous woman in this gorgeous dress.

Simon takes you by the waist, pulling you to his body, whispering back how beautiful you look. It makes you blush, looking back at him rather surprised. He’s equally surprised by his own bold actions, but he plays it off good enough and smiles. Glancing at your pink cheeks with a “good” as you’re both interrupted.

“Simon, darling! There you are!” One woman says.

“I’ve been looking for you! May I present my daughter, Bridgette. She’s a nurse in London as a matter of fact.” Another states proudly.

“I’m terribly sorry, mam”, you interrupt, turning towards Simon and tidying up his tie. Your fingers brushing up against his chest, his throat, it gives him shivers. Any excuse to touch him really was your thought process-

“But I’m afraid he’s already spoken for. As of six months ago tonight, actually. Isn’t that right, darling?.” A proud smile on your face, and Simon just thinks you’re absolutely hypnotizing. Tongue in cheek, yes, but he already wants it to be real, to be yours. He just hopes you’ll say yes to dinner after this, and that you actually didn’t accompany anyone here.

“Yea, this is my girlfriend…” he starts, completely blanking.

My God, he didn’t even know your name, and yet he’s utterly entranced. Talk about a backwards way to start off a relationship.

“Y/N,” you stick out a hand to the mama and her nurse daughter, but they just painfully smile, clearly trying to decline “politely”. With that, they mutter an excuse and walk away, already sniffing for the next eligible bachelor around this evening.

“Well. That’s that then. You’re very welcome, boyfriend dearest.” You tease, bringing your wine glass back up to your lips, admiring his features. He really is a handsome man, it surprises you he doesn’t have anyone special in his life.

“Thank you for your help, Y/N.” He says your name on purpose, he wants to test it out on his tongue. He finds he rather likes it. You do as well.

“Can I get you another drink? On me…” Simon shyly asks, leaning against the bar.

“If it means you’ll stay and have one with me, then yes.” You flirt, waiting for his reaction. Alas, a blush appears on his cheeks. It makes you smile, a big, gorgeous man like this- yet he’s rather timid. It’s sweet really.

“It’s nice to meet you Simon, formally.” You stick out your hand for him to shake. His eyes meet your own and he smiles before taking it. Your hands are so soft, he wants to touch you always if it’s like this.

“Likewise, love.”

You two spent the rest of the night together, by the bar chatting, walking through the gardens getting to know one another, he asked you to dance. Hell, even Price and his new bride thought you two were together by the end of the night.

It took an official date or two, but eventually you were.

Who knows, maybe you two would be the next to get hitched. Simon certainly hopes so.

[sayruq]

The United Nations said Tuesday it suspended food distribution in the southern Gaza city of Rafah due to lack of supplies and insecurity. It also said no aid trucks entered in the past two days via a floating pier set up by the U.S. for sea deliveries. The U.N. has not specified how many people have stayed in Rafah since the Israeli military began its intensified assault there two weeks ago, but apparently several hundred thousand people remain. The World Food Program said it was also running out of food for central Gaza, where hundreds of thousands of Palestinians fleeing Rafah have sought shelter in a chaotic exodus, setting up new tent camps or crowding into areas already devastated by previous Israeli offensives. Abeer Etefa, a spokesperson for the U.N’s World Food Program, warned that “humanitarian operations in Gaza are near collapse.” If food and other supplies don’t resume entering Gaza “in massive quantities, famine-like conditions will spread,” she said.

The prosecutor at the International Criminal Court cited Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and Defense Minister Yoav Gallant for alleged “use of starvation as a method of warfare,” a charge they and other Israeli officials angrily deny. The prosecutor accused three Hamas leaders of war crimes over killings of civilians in the group’s Oct. 7 attack. The U.N says some 1.1 million people in Gaza – nearly half the population — face catastrophic levels of hunger and that the territory is on the brink of famine. The crisis in humanitarian supplies has spiraled in the two weeks since Israel launched an incursion into Rafah on May 6, vowing to root out Hamas fighters. Troops seized the Rafah crossing into Egypt, which has been closed since. Since May 10, only about three dozen trucks made it into Gaza via the nearby Kerem Shalom crossing from Israel because fighting makes it difficult for aid workers to reach it, the U.N. says. For months, the U.N. has warned that an Israeli assault on Rafah could wreck the effort to get food, medicine and other supplies to Palestinians across Gaza. Throughout the war, Rafah has been filled with scenes of hungry children holding out pots and plastic containers at makeshift soup kitchens, with many families reduced to eating only one meal a day. The city’s population had swelled to some 1.3 million people, most of whom fled fighting elsewhere. Around 810,000 people have streamed out of Rafah, although Israel says it has not launched the full-fledged invasion of the city it had planned. The United States has said Israel did not present a “credible” plan for evacuating the population or keeping it safe. The main agency for Palestinian refugees, UNRWA, announced the suspension of distribution in Rafah in a post on X, without elaborating beyond citing the lack of supplies. U.N. spokesman Stephane Dujarric said the UNRWA distribution center and the WFP’s warehouses in Rafah were “inaccessible due to ongoing military operations.”

An absolute nightmare

[charliemwrites]

A Thought™️ that I had yesterday after watching those AITA videos and babbling in the discord:

(This is also babble to be clear. I’ve been writing this throughout the morning so it might be a bit incoherent)

The 141 is shopping for a new team member, someone to round out their four person squad into five. They have a dozen candidates, pick one that looks promising, and transfer him over under the military equivalent of “probationary” status.

Pretty quickly they decide his personality alone might not make him a good fit but whatever, if he’s good at his job, they’ll suck it up. The “alpha male” posturing bullshit is kind of amusing in the meantime at least.

Well, first mission comes and goes. The guy isn’t too bad, honestly — apart from almost picking a fight with Gaz. Skills-wise he’s as advertised, so he gets to stay a bit longer while the 141 decides if they can stand him.

Post successful mission, though, they go out for drinks at the guy’s insistence. He invites his girlfriend — who he dragged along with him — to the bar to meet his new squad. (Because he thinks there’s no way they’re not making him a permanent teammate.)

And the 141 may be barely tolerant of him, but they decide almost instantly that they adore his girlfriend. She’s incredibly charming and bubbly, doesn’t even blink at Ghost’s mask. One of the first things she does is thank them for the opportunity they’re giving her boyfriend and for keeping him alive.

Which is about the time the real issue starts.

The boyfriend says some rubbish about “an alpha doesn’t need protecting, he does the protecting. He looks out for his pack.”

And you smile a bit awkwardly, looking embarrassed, and try to usher the conversation along.

It doesn’t take long for him to quickly fall out of what little favor he accrued. You’re a bright spot in their group, laughing and chatting with them all like you’ve known them for years. Incredibly sensitive to asking any hard questions and sort of forcing the conversation through the weird patches where your boyfriend interjects with some inane comment.

Eventually, your boyfriend gets sick of your chattering and tells you to fetch them more drinks. Soap instantly sits up, saying you don’t have to do that, but you gently wave him off. Chirp that you don’t mind doing it as a thank you for their service, and weave into the crowd.

The table goes uncomfortable quiet — apart from your boyfriend, who makes some ghastly comment about how you have a pretty face but an annoying laugh. When you get back, drinks expertly balanced in your hands, Ghost goes out of his way to drop puns that get you giggling like mad.

As the night ticks later, and your boyfriend gets drunker, he reaches the point you always dread.

“Garrick, le’s arm wrestle.”

“Baby, I don’t think that’s…”

“This is between us men.”

You groan a bit and sit back. Gaz looks befuddled but shrugs and agrees. It’s not even a contest; your boyfriend’s arm is flat to the table in all of ten seconds. Flustered, your boyfriend demands a rematch. And when he loses again, scoffs and demands a go with Soap.

You practically sink deeper and deeper into your seat before the secondhand embarrassment starts to weigh and you have to excuse yourself to the restroom. When you get back, the impromptu arm wrestling seems to be over, though your boyfriend is sulking in his corner of the booth.

When you gingerly slide back in, Price nudges you with his calf.

“Would you like a go, luv?”

You grin and shake your head. “I don’t fancy a broken wrist, Captain.”

“C’mon luv, you might surprise yourself,” he teases and you can’t resist the playful glint in his eye.

So you lock your thumb around his, elbow on the table, and push. And his arm incrementally goes down… down… down…

“Well would you look at that,” he muses.

You burst into laughter, flattered and endeared by his indulgence.

“That tough, eh?” Soap muses, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s see it, then.”

So you roll your eyes, fully expecting to get trounced. But just like with Price, he starts to relent when you put up resistance, making a show of straining and panting as he “loses.” When you’ve won, you finally play into the joke.

“Serves you right,” you tease.

By your side, you hear your boyfriend huff derisively. “Oh, come on.”

Before your fun can be ruined, though, Ghost is offering you his hand, dark eyes sparkling. You bite your lip, but it doesn’t hide your grin as you accept the unspoken challenge. His hand is huge around yours, but shockingly gentle. He goes down easiest of all, whistling in amazement.

“Look’it that, you’re a pro,” he says, “think we should all be buying you a drink.”

“She doesn’t drink,” your boyfriend interjects.

You huff and settle back into the booth. “Maybe some other time, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Count on it.”

You get into an argument with your boyfriend that night. He thinks you were “challenging his dominance” and “stirring the pot,” trying to sew discord and strife amongst the men to get them fighting over you. He says something about being the alpha of the group and that he would win but it’s insulting to him as your “provider” that you would question his authority.

He’s tipsy as he says it though, working himself up. You just follow the usual routine of soothing, reassuring, simpering — and then considering leaving when he’s finally asleep. But you’re far from home, don’t have the means to leave, and besides, you won’t be finding any support from your family on this front so…

Well, it’s not so bad, you remind yourself. He can be an asshole, but so can you and it takes two to fight. Besides, he only gets really bad when he’s been drinking and that’s only once a week? 1 out of 7 isn’t a bad ratio.

—

The 141 pretty much collectively decide that they adore you though. You get regularly invited to team outings, wherein your boyfriend keeps challenging (and losing) arm wrestling, while the boys coax you into “winning.”

They’ve also become rather adamant that you don’t bring them drinks anymore.

“You’re not our personal beer wench, yeah? We’re able to get our own pints,” Gaz soothes.

Your boyfriend chuckles and shakes his head, imparts his “wisdom” that it’s a female’s job to serve her man and his friends. As a sign of respect or something. You know it’s not an argument worth having and just sip at your drink in silence.

But you love going out with them. Love knowing the men keeping your boyfriend alive and they’re a good bunch. Respectful and funny and disciplined — you’re kind of hoping they snap your boyfriend out of this weird “alpha male” phase he’s been going through. On the other hand, you’re thrilled to be making something like friends. Sure, your boyfriend has made it clear that the 141 are his friends, but they’re always so conscious of keeping you involved and comfortable.

Then one night your boyfriend mentions what a “good little cook” you are and that instantly has all the boys perking up. Smiling, you offer to host during the Saturday League matches. They gleefully accept over your boyfriend’s protests about other men in his territory or something like that.

But when they do come over they’re horrified by the unspoken expectations. You tell them to sit, that you’ll bring them all drinks, with snacks on the way. They’ll be having none of it.

Ghost helps you with drinks, Gaz chops the veggies for snacks (and dinner). Soap pops in to keep you company while you babysit simmering pots. Price helps to tidy as you go, despite you’re fussing that he really doesn’t need to, he should be enjoying the games!

They end up spending more time with you in the kitchen than out in the den with their own teammate. You barely notice, swept up in the busy currents of playing hostess. When your boyfriend shouts that he needs another beer, you come back to find Price getting plates and utensils for dinner. It’s so thoughtful you could cry.

Even worse is when they help you clean up afterwards. Each of them taking and clearing their own plates. Soap on washing big dishes, Gaz on drying. Ghost is packing up leftovers. Price is turning over the dishwasher, asking you where dishes go and tutting when you insist you should be helping.

All the while, your boyfriend stands in the doorway telling you all the ways you could improve the meal next time. And how you definitely ate too much for your body size, etc.

He only stops when Price makes a pointed comment about standing around looking pretty.

When they leave, they each sweep you up in a hug and drop a kiss on your cheek, praising your home and cooking and hosting. Soap promises that he’ll get you a little souvenir on their next mission as a thank you.

And sure enough, three weeks later, the boys are coming by. Except your boyfriend is nowhere to be found — out with some other guys from the base that he says he hit it off with. The 141 insist that he agreed to a football watch again, the empty headed muppet.

And of course you’re not going to turn them away! They’ve brought you flowers, a little matryoshka set from their last mission, chocolates and wine. Not one of them is empty handed.

“Do you even like the game?” Gaz asks as you put it on.

“My favorite team isn’t playing until tomorrow but I don’t mind watching,” you answer, shrugging.

But somehow no football is watched at all. Instead they convince you to tell them your top three favorite movies, then claim none of them have ever seen any of them and they have to watch all of them.

Which is how your boyfriend finds his whole team enjoying a little movie marathon with you. You’re on the ground with Johnny (it’s Johnny now, for you) doing his eyebrows. Gaz is braiding your hair. Ghost (Simon) is sharing a bowl of candies with you. You’re sat against Price’s shins, the captain sitting in your boyfriend’s chair, lounging like a king.

When you welcome him back, telling him the boys are staying the night, he tries to throw a fit about it. How dare you let four strange men stay alone with you?! You calmly remind him that he promised he’d be home by 11 and it’s already nearly 1. And besides, he trusts them with his life, you’re allowed to trust them to be polite in your own home.

With all four of his teammates watching, tense and nearly hostile, he mutters something about being tired and storms off to bed. You end up falling asleep on the couch with ghost despite yourself.

And your boyfriend becomes absolutely haunted by his team’s (is it even his team? It feels more like yours!) affection for you.

They always invite you out even if he doesn’t plan to invite you. (When did you get any of their numbers?! Never mind Ghost’s. He doesn’t even have Ghost’s number.)

They stop by the flat constantly, sometimes dropping in. Other times staying for hours. Soap tells him that they’re all one big family; that includes you. (“Alright then why don’t we go hang out with one of your girlfriends?!” He had an actual nightmare about the laughter that gets him.)

And the fucking gifts. It’s not just soap bringing you things anymore. It’s all of them. Magnets, mugs, sweets, pretty rocks. Just garbage to your boyfriend but you treat it all like treasure. They’ve even got you sending them on hunts for specific things. Something blue, something with nuts, something with the flag.

Then there’s the base.

They bring you on one day — Price picks you up, the boys greet you at the barracks with coffee and breakfast. You’re put into a big 141 hoodie that says “Riley” on the back and toured around. You’re supposed to be “surprising” your boyfriend, but he’s busy with recruits and generally seems uninterested in being around you.

Not to worry though, the 141 is happy to show you a good time around base! Gaz and Johnny walk you through one of the obstacle courses, Simon lets you sit on his back for pushups during the last of his workout. Price takes you to the range and shows you the basics of shooting, then lets you catnap through the adrenaline drop in his office.

Your boyfriend only bothers to find you when Johnny and Simon are teaching you basic self-defense. Your boyfriend scoffs that you’re plenty protected by him, but you point out that he’s away too often to be of any real help — at which point Johnny tags you and bolts before your boyfriend can get all up in arms.

You only recognize that this little hurdle in your relationship has become a chasm when something happens. A big argument with your parents over the phone — you barely even remember what about. But instead of calling your boyfriend afterwards, your first call is to Gaz. (Because you know he’s the most likely to be free and paying attention to his phone.) You’re almost shocked when he picks up on the second ring. Your boyfriend has never answered on the first call.

When you try to explain through poorly-restrained tears, he coos at you to find a warm coffee shop and that they’ll be right there. “They” ends up being him and Johnny, since Simon and Price are locked up in an important meeting. They buy you hot chocolate and pastries while you vent to them, and end up leaving feeling better for once.

But you can’t break up with your boyfriend. Because if you do, the 141 will surely stop hanging out with you, and you value their company enough to put up with it.

At least until you come home one day to find all your little gifts gone. When you ask through a tight throat where everything is, your boyfriend says he was just making space. That you’ve been complaining that you two need a bigger flat, but now he’s solved the problem without wasting money.

You actually raise your voice for once, throwing an entire fit because this. This is the last straw. You storm into your bedroom, slam and lock the door, and call the 141.

A small part of you expects they’ll take his side or something. But nope. Simon soothes you on the other end, that the whole squad will be there in fifteen and to pack your stuff.

You do so while Price takes over and keeps you level. Reminds you of essentials to pack and explains that you’ll be coming to stay at his place, since he’s got off-base housing. It’ll be quiet and cozy and safe while you recover.

Five minutes away, they promise to be right there and end the call.

You could absolutely scream when your boyfriend — ex boyfriend — starts banging on the door. Demanding that you open the door to him. That you’re being over dramatic and blowing everything out of proportion. Using the “your emotional and irrational” line that you’ve heard a thousand times and are just about sick of.

Your heart stutters with relief when you hear the knocking at the apartment door, confused silence as your ex goes to see who it is. You take that moment to slip out, packed suitcase in hand.

You startle a bit at some commotion, round the corner to see your ex’s shirt bunched up in Johnny’s fists, looking ready kill him. No one seems inclined to pull him away; neither are you.

“How are you holding up, luv?” Gaz asks gently as Simon takes your bag.

“Been better,” you admit, sniffling as Price wraps you up in a hug.

“It was just things, luv,” he soothes, “we’ll get you a million more, if you like.”

You pull back to give him a miserable look. “But they were my things and they didn’t have to go anywhere. He just threw them out.”

Johnny snarls something out, but Gaz is already ushering you out the door. You tell your family about the break up through text and then shut off your phone, bundled into the backseat of an SUV with Gaz in the backseat. Price is in the front, all of you waiting for Simon and Johnny to come down.

“What now?” you ask quietly.

“Well, about time we cut that knob loose,” Price muses. “But that’s not your problem anymore.”

“Oh…

“And you, luv.” He looks at you through the rear view. “You get whatever you want.”

[spacelazarwolf]

apparently a bunch of ppl on social media are trying to call for a boycott of rick riordan because of this statement in a blog post:

Becky and I are just back from a busy weekend with events at the Boston Book Festival and New York Comic-Con.

Before I get into that, however, some words to acknowledge the ongoing horrors in Israel and Gaza. As many of you may know, I am no longer on social media. My accounts post only updates on my books and related projects. I do not read posts, reply to posts, or share my thoughts about world events on those forums. That doesn’t mean I don’t have strong feelings and reactions. It means I am offline as completely as possible, except for the occasional blog post like this one.

I will say this: Over the last eighteen years, I have received many fan letters from young readers, both Israeli and Palestinian, who often told me that my books helped them escape the fear, grief and anxiety they were dealing with at the time. Some had lost family members to violence. Some were writing while in the distance they could hear explosions, gunfire, and the launching of rockets. They used my books as a way to escape into another world, where the monsters were fictional, and where demigods usually saved the day. While I am always glad that my books can help young readers find joy during difficult times, my heart breaks every time I hear about the things they have to deal with. I am grief-stricken by the horrific events now unfolding, especially because I know that they are part of a long historic pattern that has been robbing too many children of their childhood and perpetuating hatred for far too long.

I am also quite aware that when anyone, myself included, tries to speak about this issue, the reader is waiting to pounce, thinking, “Yes, but whose side are you on?” That is exactly the wrong question. If there are two sides to this issue, those sides are not Palestinian/Israeli or Muslim/Jewish. The two sides are humanitarian and dehumanizing. Dehumanizing has a long evil history. It is appealing and easy to buy into, because humans are tribal animals. We are hardwired to think in terms of ‘us’ versus ‘them.’ We are the real humans, the good guys, the ones with God on our side. Those other people are evil monsters who don’t deserve empathy. Hate mongers have thrived on dehumanizing for as long as there have been humans. It provides them with a purpose, a way to rally support, power, and scapegoats. It is easy to point to atrocities committed by our enemies, while justifying or minimizing the atrocities committed by ourselves or our allies.

Humanitarianism is a much harder sell. It requires us to empathize, to see other groups of people as equally deserving of dignity and quality of life. It requires not always putting ourselves and our needs first. But in the long run, humanitarianism is our only hope. If violence could end violence, if we could put an end to “those other people” once and for all, human history would read very differently than it does.

So yes, I am appalled by the Hamas attacks on Israeli civilians. I am appalled by the suffering of Palestinian civilians in Gaza. Both things can be true. Both things must be true. My thoughts are with all the people who have died, who have lost loved ones, who have had their worlds and their lives shattered, especially the children. More death and violence will not break this cycle, which has been going on for generations. There is no military solution. Even since I first wrote the post, only twenty-four hours ago, the Israeli government’s brutal retaliation against the entire population of Gaza has reached genocidal proportions. This is not only an atrocity. It is folly. Answering misery with misery only creates more fertile ground for extremism, dehumanizing the “other side,” letting hate mongers thrive, stay in power, and reduce us all to our most monstrous impulses. The only real solution is treating each other like equally worthy human beings, and negotiating a peace that allows all parties a chance to live in security and dignity, with hopes for a future that does not include bombs and rockets and gunfire. This means security and support for Israel, yes. It also means a secure Palestine which is allowed to get the international aid and recognition it needs to build a viable state.

Do I think that will happen? Unfortunately, no. Humans are simply too selfish, too ready to blame “the other” for all their problems, too ready to dehumanize, though I also believe, perhaps paradoxically, that most people just want to live their lives in peace and have a chance for their children to have a brighter future. The problem is when we don’t allow other people to have those same hopes and dreams — when it becomes a false choice of us versus them.

What can I do? I will continue to write books that I hope will give young readers some joy. I will resist the urge to demonize entire groups of people. I will call for less violence, not more violence. And when asked whose side I am on, I will tell you I am on the side of humanitarianism.

So with that said, I return to the world of books . . .

honestly, if you have a problem with this statement, it’s probably because he’s talking about you. this is exactly what legitimate activists (as in not just random westerners who share social media posts but on-the-ground activists who are doing real work) have been saying for decades. and i think all this really speaks to just how disconnected a lot of westerners who claim to be pro palestinian are from those activists.

if you can’t read a statement that says “i am on the side of humanitarianism and less violence” without immediately jumping to cancel them, you are the problem being discussed in the above statement.

[odinsblog]

“I first started noticing the journalists dying on Instagram. I'm a journalist, I'm Arab, and I've reported on war. A big part of my community is other Arab journalists who do the same thing.

And when someone dies, news travels fast. Recently, I pulled up the list that the Committee to Protect Journalists has been keeping and looked at it for the first time. There are 95 journalists and media workers on it as of today.

Almost everyone on it is Palestinian. Scrolling through, I started to get angry. These were the people carrying the burden of documenting this whole war.

Israel is not allowing foreign journalists into Gaza, except on rare occasions with military escorts. These people's names are being buried in a giant list that keeps growing. What I want to do is lift some of them off the list for a moment and give you a glimpse of who they were and the work they made.

I'll start with Sadi Mansour. Sadi was the director of Al-Quds News Network, and he posted a 22-second video on November 18. That was a report from the war, but it also gave me a picture into his marriage.

Sadi's wearing his press vest and looks exhausted. He's explaining that cell service and the Internet keep getting cut off, and it's often impossible to text or call anyone, including his wife. So they've resorted to using handwritten letters to communicate while he's out reporting, sending them back and forth with neighbors or colleagues.

He ends the video with a picture of one of these letters from his wife. In it, she writes,

‘Me and the kids stayed up waiting for you until the morning, and you didn't come home. We were really sad.

I kept telling the kids, Look, he's coming. But you didn't show up. May God forgive you.

Come home tomorrow and eat with us. Do you want me to make you kebab or maybe kapse? Bring your friends with you, it's okay.

And give Azeez the battery to charge. What do you think about me sending you handwritten letters with messenger pigeons from now on? Ha ha ha.

I'm just kidding. I want to curse at you, but we're living in a war. Too bad.

Okay, I love you. Bye.’

A few hours after he shared that letter, Sadie and his co-worker Hassouna Saleem were at Sadie's home, when they were killed by an Israeli air strike that hit his house.

His wife and kids, who weren't there, survived.

Gaza is tiny, and the journalist community is really close. Reading the list, you can see all the connections between people. Like with Brahim Lafi.

Brahim was a photojournalist, one of the first journalists to die. He was killed while reporting on October 7. He was just 21, still new to journalism.

On his Instagram, you can see that in his posts just a few years ago, he was still practicing his photography, taking pictures of coffee cups and flowers. Then he started doing beautiful portraits and action shots. You can really feel him starting to become a journalist.

Clicking around on Instagram, I found a tribute post about Brahim from his co-worker Rushdie Sarraj. In this photo, Brahim staring intently at the back of a camera, his face lit up by the light from the viewfinder. He looks so young.

The caption reads, My assistant is gone. Brahim is gone. Rushdie himself was a beloved journalist and filmmaker.

And I know that because he's also on the list. He was killed just two weeks after Brahim. I read the tribute post to him too.

I saw this over and over again. Journalists posting tributes, who were then killed themselves soon after. And a tribute goes up for them.

And then the pattern continues.

Thank you.

Something else I saw over and over on the list, journalists later in the war who had become aware that they could be making their last reports. They'd say it at the beginning of their videos. And those were the hardest to watch, especially when it was true.

One video like that was posted by Ayat Hadduro. Ayat was a freelance journalist and video blogger. Her videos before the war covered a wide range from what I can tell, interviews about women in politics.

She even appeared in a commercial for ketchup-flavored chips. She clearly liked being in front of the camera. Once the war started, Ayat's pivoted to covering bombings and food shortages.

On November 20, she posted a video report from her home. You can hear the airstrikes hitting very close to where she is. It's scary.

‘This is likely my last video. Today, the occupation forces dropped phosphorus bombs on Beit Lahya area and frightening sound bombs. They dropped letters from the sky, ordering everyone to evacuate.

Everyone ran into the streets in the craziest way. No one knows where to go.

But everyone else has evacuated. They don't know where they're going. The situation is so scary.

What's happening is so tough, and may God have mercy on us.’

She was killed later that day.

Targeting journalists, in case you didn't know, is a war crime. So far, the Committee to Protect Journalists has found that three of the journalists on the list were explicitly targeted by the IDF, the Israeli military. Investigations by the Washington Post and Reuters, Human Rights Watch and the United Nations have also raised serious questions in these three cases.

And the Committee to Protect Journalists is investigating 10 other killings. When we reached out to the IDF for comments, they said, quote, the IDF has never, and will never, deliberately target journalists. That's the answer they always give in these situations.

Meanwhile, dozens of seasoned reporters have fled Gaza. Journalists who worked for Al Jazeera, the BBC, the New York Times, the Washington Post, Reuters, Agence France-Presse. So many media offices were demolished in Israeli airstrikes that the Committee to Protect Journalists stopped counting.

It's not just individual lives that have been destroyed. It's an entire infrastructure.

Thank you.

The name on the list that was hardest for me to look at was Issam Abdullah, because I'd crossed paths with him once. Issam was a Lebanese journalist, a video journalist for Reuters for many, many years. He had just won an award for coverage of Ukraine.

I'm Lebanese and still report there sometimes, and I'd worked with Issam a couple of summers ago. He helped me film a sort of random story in Beirut. I was interviewing this entrepreneur who had started a sperm freezing company after an accident where he spilled a tray of hot coffee on his private area, burning himself.

I know, ridiculous. It was a really silly shoot. Right after we said cut and started to rap, Issam started this whole bit about being in his late 30s, reconsidering his own sperm quality and everything he now realized he was doing to hurt it, and no one could stop laughing.

It was a really good day that felt good to remember and to remember him that way. Issam was killed by the IDF on October 13. His death was one of the three that the Committee to Protect Journalists has identified as a targeted killing.

He was fired upon by an Israeli tank while standing in an empty field on the Lebanon-Israel border with a small group of other journalists. Everyone was wearing press vests with cameras out. They were covering the Hezbollah part of this war.

A few other journalists were injured in the attack, which was captured on video. The IDF says they were responding to firing from Hezbollah, not targeting the journalists. But multiple investigations, including by Reuters, the United Nations, Amnesty International and the AFP, found no evidence of any firing from the location of the journalists before the IDF shot at them.

The journalists in the group and video footage confirmed that there was no military activity near them. I had only met Issam once, barely knew him, but it affected me so much when he died. I know that he understood the risks of his job, but somehow it still felt so random and unfair that he would be struck down like that, following the rules, wearing his press vest and helmet, and a pack of reporters on a sunny day in an open field.

I find myself thinking about him all the time. His last Instagram post was commemorating another journalist, this iconic reporter Shereen Abou Aql who had been killed by the IDF. When I first saw that post in October, I thought how ironic because a week later, Isam also was killed by the IDF.

But then, after spending time reading the list, I realized how common this had become. I still haven't finished going through the list and looking up the people on it. I keep finding things that stick with me, like the funny way this one radio host would cut off a caller who was rambling on for too long.

A tweet from reporter Al-Abdallah that quoted Sylvia Plath. It read, What ceremony of wars can patch the havoc? I'm going to keep going down the list, even though this story is over now.

Just for myself. My own way of bearing witness. Which is, in the end, all that these journalists were trying to do.”

—DANA BALLOUT, The 95. Dana sifts through a very long list—the list of journalists killed in the Israel-Hamas war, and comes back with five small fragments of the lives of the people on it. Dana is a Lebanese-American, Emmy-nominated documentary producer.

[pedgito]

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄 | Marcus Acacius x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | once your dad's greatest friend, now his greatest enemy. you cannot shake the desire and care you feel for the fallen general, even as he heads toward death.

author's note | LISTEN, none of this is going to be accurate. and frankly idc, i'm horny i needed to write this do not come at me. no source material? idc i'm still writing it. anyways, enjoy the p*rn. (if you're reading this prior to the movie coming out, none of this is canon. this is just an idea that i wanted to write and felt like posting, if you do not like the idea of writing without source material, please do not engage or send me asks to be combative, they will be deleted. i won't be continuing this specific fic and will not be writing for him again until the movie comes out.)

content warning | 18+ smut, this is dbf for the gladiator girlies (gn), sneaking around, descriptions of smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampies, breeding kink, age gap (reader is early 20s, marcus is late 40s/early 50s), alcohol tw, innocence kink

word count —2k

You knew he would be here soon, he must. 

You curled into the dark corners of the arena hall, having been here since dawn with your own father, a high military commander who struck down Marcus as punishment for such things even he wouldn’t tell you about. You knew nothing, heard nothing—you weren’t allowed such privilege. 

It has been days since you last saw him—Marcus. General Acacius to many, another esteemed leader amongst the masses, and a once great friend to your father. Though, that was no longer.

You often called him sir, finding that General Acacius was quite the mouthful. Or often just General, but his endearment toward you was blatant and he insists, almost pleading that you drop the formality when alone. Which was easier, as your fondness of him grew.

It started at a celebration, one of the many grand parties thrown in celebration of fight won or any reason for the men to drink, but Marcus liked to linger. Often tucked away in a corner watching the madness unfold, you were too curious to stay locked up in your room.

The first night he caught your eye, it was a smile around the edge of his silver goblet drowning in red wine, a hand crossed over his chest as he watched you slip away in fear that he may say something to your father.

But, he never did.

For weeks after, it progresses. From a smile, to a lingering gaze, eventually he finds himself inching closer to you, week by week. Until one night he finally finds the courage in himself to be waiting by the corner you often sneak around, watching curiously.

“You are pushing it, dove.” He speaks softly, his eyes downturned to look at you from the step he was on above you, slowly inching down until he was level, “if he catches you—”

“He hasn’t,” You tell him in a clipped, hushed tone, “and you haven’t said anything. You won’t….will you?”

He bypasses the question, “Why do you come here?” Marcus curiously asks, “These men, they are—animals, if they see you dressed like that, they would not hesitate to—”

You had on a pale nightgown, thin and barely enough to cover your modesty but it was enough. The sticky, summer heat prickled your skin, formed a line of sweat across your brow and you huffed out at his words, “My father would murder them. Besides, you are not like them. So, why do you linger here?”

He was much more than a friend, closer and akin to family. 

But, he had his own troubles. Stepson, a wife, he should be away caring for them. Yet, he was there with a disgruntled scowl and eyes only set on you.

“Why not?” He shrugs, “It is…quite entertaining. Isn’t that why you sneak around here to watch?”

You mimic his shrug, shying away slightly as you pull away to leave, but his hand catches your wrist, his cup placed in the gap of pillars separating you both. His facial expressions show an internal battle of thought, like he’s fighting against the bad and hoping the good would win out.

Unfortunately, the bad prevails.

“Let us walk,” He tells you, nodding toward the exit a few feet away, “if you would accompany me?”

You nod eagerly, switching the grip on your wrist to curl around his bicep, muscular and hard from years of fight training. He flexes slightly at the touch, covering his free hand over yours in a comforting gesture. 

He made you feel safe. And that was all that mattered to you.

—

The walk was the first mistake.

It wasn’t more than a few minutes before you found yourself tucked away by a nearby tent, unbuckling and unfastening Marcus out of his gear hastily before he fucked you under your nightgown—gentle but firm. He was the first man, the first ever to have you in such a way. You’d told him so as your hands shook under the weight of his gaze, the taste of bitter wine on his lips. He’d kissed you as he pushed his cock inside of you and didn’t stop until you were tipping over the edge.

Over time, you grow bolder. Sneaking him back into your home was easy, knowing the guards weren’t as watchful in the late, late hours of the night. It was dangerous, reckless, but as you tug him down into the cellar and sink to your knees, it all fades away quickly.

His little dove, he often calls you. Sweet dove, so pure and innocent. His hand caresses your chin as you swallow him down, eyes locked on his half-lidded gaze before he comes down your throat, nose scrunching up slightly and his brow furrowing, biting at the back of his other hand to muffle the groan that escapes him.

It was always like this—hurried and quick fucks that didn’t diminish the feeling, but reminded you how easily you could both be caught. It continues for months…and months, until suddenly he stops coming around.

No parties, no visits—Marcus had become a ghost.

But, enough digging had led you here, tucked away in the shadows again—but watching as he fought for his life. The other man was much older, weaker, and Marcus struck him down within a matter of minutes, blood splattering across his face as he stuck again and again, bashing the poor man’s skull in until it was nothing, teeth gritting as his body surged with adrenaline.

Gladiator fighting wasn’t a new thing—and you knew he wasn’t the only one, but why?

He’s making his way down the arena toward the pillar you are tucked behind unknowingly, alone and battered as the guards run off to dispose of the body. You aren’t sure where Marcus is going now or when you would see him again, but you take the chance when you know no one is watching, grabbing him by the armor plate on his chest and pulling him away and into a dusty closet, knocking into a stack of buckets in the process.

You gasp as his hand wraps around your neck, fist cocked back in preparation of an attack.

But, then his eyes land on you.

“Dove, what are you—”

You shush him quickly, hands molding against his face and the dried blood, his breathing quick and short as you attempt to calm him.

“I had to see you—I thought…I thought you had—”

“I might as well be,” Marcus replies somberly, “we cannot meet like this. We cannot meet at all.”

“It’s fine, It’s fine–” You assure him, reaching forward to press your lips against his.

Marcus pulls away hesitantly, grabbing your face roughly until you look at him, eyes widening.

“They will kill you. I cannot see you again. I should not even be here with you.”

Your eyes well with tears, forcing yourself forward again to capture his lips and this time he allows it, opening his mouth slightly as your tongue dips inside, working silently at the buckles to his chest plate.

“No talking. Let us…enjoy this. If it is the last time.”

You were both well aware—he would fight for his life or die, that was it. And he would fight until that point came. He was no longer a General, completely stripped of his power. But, he was still Marcus. And you would hold onto that for as long as you could.

He’s shaking, the adrenaline raking his body and making him restless as you kissed him, tongue dipping into his mouth again as his hands roamed, squeezed, caressed. 

“I will not break,” You whisper into his mouth, “take what you need, Marcus.”

It was all he needed to hear, turning you around swiftly and forcing your down with a hand against your back, arms pressing into the shelf in front of you as he pushed up the silk, carefully woven and intricate fabric of your dress—so pristine and perfect. He wanted to rip it off you, be he refrains, squeezing at your hips while he kneels behind you.

“Marcus, you need not—”

“Quiet, little dove. Let me have this,” He licks against your cunt hungrily, noisy slurps as he lapped you up, squeezing less than gentle at the inside of your thighs as they shook, his tongue swiping over your clit, a broken moan slipping past your lips, “beautiful—let me hear you.”

“Marcus,” You plea, his fingers joining his tongue as they breached you and drag against the soft, but incredibly sensitive spot inside of you, your hand reaching for his wrist tucked between your legs as you whined out his name once more, twice, until your legs gave out, feelings his strong, broad shoulders flexing as he used his brute strength to keep you upright, licking up the gush of fluids that leak out of you, rising with haste and untucking himself from his garments, wrapping a gentle hand around the back of your neck before he’s pulling you upright harshly.

“Want to leave you something,” He whispers against the shell of your ear, “something to remember me, if I shall never leave here. Something of me for you to carry on. Alright, sweet dove?”

You nod knowingly, as Marcus had always been careful to pull himself out before breaching that point. He was always careful, hesitant—but being on the brink of death, he found himself careless and desperate. He couldn’t let you go.

He slips inside of you with a hand tucked around your throat, pulling your back to his chest as he snapped his hips into you firmly, groaning lewdly into the side of your neck as he bit down, squeezing at your throat with every soft sound you made and you want it just as bad, forcing your hips back into every push of his cock—you were positive this pain would last you into next week, but you needed that reminder. His fingers dip into your skin, hard and uncaring and sure to leave marks, but that was what you wanted.

And his groans quickly turn needy, more high-pitched than you’ve ever heard them

He’s holding back, restraining himself. You turn your head, catching his heated gaze as he pants, your thumb tracing over his lip. His hand drags over your stomach, rests, curious of how beautiful you would look swollen and carrying his child. 

It is a hopeful and distant dream, one that he will never foresee.

“Give it to me, Marcus,” You beg him, “I want it.”

It so easily undoes him, “Take it, my dove,” He growls, coming deep inside of you with a shaky thrust of his hips, squeezing you tight against him, “I think of you, always. You must know—know that.” 

It pulls at your heart, tugs in a way that makes your entire body ache. He pulls out with a low grunt, silently tucking himself away as you adjust your dress.

“And I love you,” You admit, watching as his gaze pulls up quickly, “even if you cannot say it back. I know. I know you do.”

Marcus breathes harshly through his nose, crowding you once more but it is soothed by a gentle kiss, “You need to leave—do not come back here.”

“Marcus,” You counter, sadness lacing your tone.

“If, by some miracle, I make it out of here,” He drags his thumb along your jawline, pausing on his words as he looks you over, memorizes you, “I will find you.”

You nod jerkily, eyes never breaking from his, “Just like you always have.”

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

thanks to @chaotic-mystery & @pr0ximamidnight for being the absolute best friends ever and beta'ing this for me on a moments notice, ily both.

[cosmique-oddity]

Phew, my last weeks of work are now complete >:)

I loved Dratchet and Ratchlock since the very beginning of my attachment towards Transformers, first TFP Ratchet…..but yeah….two of my favorites character….plus Keferon’s Mech AU…..I had to make my own thing about it.

A story….no…an illustration ! I couldn’t choose. So I did both :}

—————————————————

That was not the first time Ratchet came back to his private lab angry, but this time, yelling at his superiors, and at the system, and basically at evverything that could be yelled at except the pilotd while leaving the manufacture, was certainly the last. He quit. That was enough,

you don’t win a war with feelings they said

well yes,

exactly,

but you win a war with soldier, and frying their mind before they have their first fight because you want them to be more perfectionned ? That was a little counter productive.

So he gave up. They are on their own now.

The lightly humming of his car was barely enough to keep him awake, it have been a long time since he last returned home, usually, he stayed at his work place, to have more time to sleep, but then, he was sleeping even less. An endless vicious circle, things were often like that.

But all of that was over for him.

He granted these young greenhorn with his experience, and what did they do ? Ignored his advices. Sending pilots to death. So now, he had himself out of the infernal machinery. This mindless waste of human life, even where this is what they tried to save was absurd.

In the middle of his quiet and late ride, he heard a noise. Rumbling, was it the engine ? As he stopped the car backroad to check, the noise wasnt stopping. Came from the sky, military patrol ? He raised his two tired eyes on the sky and saw a shining rail approaching his forest, falling fast. Not quintesson shaped, and with the gaze of an experimented biomechanist, Ratchet identified a mech.

At this moment, its violently crashed on the ground, behind the trees at maybe three or four miles away. No matter how hard he argued with the scientist sooner this day or how bad he wanted to say fuck to all of this death industry who killed young soldiers, he could do something for the one trapped inside the mech....maybe.... the man regained his car as fast as possible and urgently headed for the crash area.

Deafened sound of tires on the damaged road. Ratchet was already projecting, mentally stocktaking the tools he took with him, and lucky enough for the poor pilot, he quit with almost all of his material, and even if it was mainly mechs repairing material, he also bought some instruments which were used for the subtle neuromedicine between human and mech. Could adapt some of it and stabilize the pilot....then he may have the time to go home and grab proper materials. If there was life there was hope.

" bold of him to crash himself just the day i insulted all of his hierachy".

He frowned. Almost there.

The trees nearby were crushed and uprooted. A flickering pink light catched his gaze.

Almost immediately, the Ratchet analyzed the mech. It was different. He didnt know in wich country it was made but that almost looks alien. The curves and shapes, busted and burned on several places were demonstrating an incredible display of genius ingeniery he could just admiring. But time was not for being amazed on plating.

Someone was trapped there.

He stopped and parked his car in front of a fallen tree, rushing to the car's trunk, taking few indispensable objets, including some of them to help a safe disconnection between pilot/mech. In case he wasnt out already. And a crowbar, the cockpit might be stuck, seeing all the damages the mech has taken...

The sound of slightly wet grass under his feet was covered by a frenetic noise of aeration. Ratchet listened to it, while cautiously approaching the unknown mech. It almost sounded like a breath, but was certainly a depressurisation issue. The mech had fallen from so high on the sky....

The damaged plating were hot, probably from atmosphere friction. He raised his crowbar and his eyes followed the curves of the chestplates, searching for a familiar shape, that could lead him to the injured pilot inside. His gaze stopped on a deep wound, that might have cut through the cockpit.

The engineer stepped on the hot metal, his thick boots preventing him from feeling the heat, and he started searching for a hint....anything that could be a mechanism, anything that could open this damn mech !

Ratchet considered the damaged chest plate he noticed earlier. The surroundings of the wound were leaking bright pink, a very unusual color for fuel. Another of these definitively strange things about the mech. Again....not the time for that. Maybe if he could widen the gap, then he would be able to have an idea of what was going on under this armor.

He tapped the plate, -it was starting to cool down- with one of his finger. It was a very little tap, but the whole mech startled. A hiss of pain, recognisible easily by an emerite engineer-but-i-fix-people-too, it had come from the head of the mecha. Was this modele controlled from the head, like Vortex ? But Vortex was insanely huge for a mech, way taller than this one. He moved careful, noticing the shaking of his support.

"You hear me, kid ? Its going to be ok. You crashed in a safe area.".

He spoke in his medic tone, wich mean, of course brusque, serious, but also reassuring and calm.

He mumbled about the mech's features and tiny words of comfort while reaching for the head.

A red light, not regular and rather epileptic was coming from the head, and while he was almost there, on all four of his limb to keep balance, Ratchet saw it.

A spectacularly humanoid face, with sculpted nose and lips was tensed in a painful expression, frowning, but the thing who trapped his gaze was the two optics....

....staring back at him.

Mechs dont stare. Their eyes are glowing, oftenly to mimick human face, after all, human are pretty prideful creature, no point in piloting big ass metal titan if no one could tell these where their creation.

What human couldnt mimick with technologie, on the other hand, was the subtle expression between trying to evualuate a threat, his own injuries, and looking rather on the verge of death but also ready to tear any enemy's limb appart with its teeth.

With just one....very long....look at the other's eye, Ratchet was suddenly understanding what was going on.

Well....probably not but he knew what he had to save.

The pilot, the pilot he had to save.

The mech was the pilot.

He was the one he had to save.

He stopped trying to -certainly- open his chest. If it wasnt good for human it probably wasnt for living technology.

The giant technological humanoid seemed in a high distress, exhaling a lot of air from his vents, his eye still intensely staring at him and the engineer doubted his usual technique -including trying to make himself as small as possible- would work.

"Its going to be okay Kid. I can help you. There is nothing here that want to harm you".

He did his best to convey all of these emotions with his facial expression and gaze, still firmly watching back at him.

"the world better wait till im home and officially retired before killing me".

The mech's gaze -damn it was so more living than ANY human made machinery- seemed to soften a bit but still radiated with suspicion.

Deadlock had been in several bad situations. It happened quite a lot when a specie of giant aliens with tendrils tried to invade your homeland, and he was ready to it.

Trained to kill, and to do it efficiently.

And he was *good* at it.

This time was just another of these ‘i went too far in my excitation’ moments, and he has crashed on a random planet he hoped was not inhabited. He landed hard, and pieces of his ship must’ve been thrown near his location.

And now, now there was an organic like no one he ever saw, and the organic was on his *lap* and he had the kindest warmest eyes he ever saw.

And these eyes were directly looking at his own eyes, and the well named ‘Deadlock’ was starting to wonder if he finally had reunited with the Allspark. His pained and tenseful grin faded a little and he tried to move his head forward, searching a better point of view to watch the singularity in front of him.

Ow.

Moving hurt.

Some sound came out of the organic’s mouth, probably a language. He didn’t had the proper tools to decode it but the tone of the language was extremely….comforting ? Soft ?

This was scary.

He wasn’t used to be welcomed like that after a fight.

Usually it was either another fight, either the yelling of a superior, either nothing at all. But this actual living being was carefully examinating his chestplates, and he recognized the gestual of someone who was used to heal. A medic perhaps ?

He tried to move something, maybe a hand, to reach for the pale organic, to be sure he was real, but his body was rather uncooperative, from what he could say, one of his legs was missing, and a lot of wound were releasing energon on the ground he couldn’t saw.

The high probabilities of bleeding out and crash was an issue.

He let his head hang, too tired to watch for every moves of the organic, and barely aware of his environment.

There must be a big problem somewhere….

He confusely thought, while watching the stars.

Must be a bigger injury I haven’t saw……..

Ratchet saw the bright light coming from the alien’s eyes slowly fading, and cold swear ran through his back. Yet, he could still say the soldier was alive, the lights of his body were shining, not a lot, but it was enough. He looked at his first aid kit with disappointment. That wouldn’t be very efficient since the form of life he was trying to preserve wasn’t a tiny human. The nearest thing he could compare the Mech to was….well their own mechs, or eventually….Quintesson. An horrible mess of organic and technology. It was partially thanks to their weird constitution that Ratchet had been able to make sense with the ‘he is alive’ thought.

At this moment and with this material, he couldn’t help the kid, and didn’t possess enough knowledge to tell if he was even dying or not.

He had already an idea of what to do….to fix him, at least trying to, but it involved several objects he hadn’t right now. Leaving to search for these so called objects was risking to let an injured alone, he couldn’t take that risk. He was trapped with the mech, and had to hurry and find something. He stood and reached for more adapted material in his car, trying to find something…. Anything.

Surprisingly, the most useful artifact he came across was his electric screwdriver and a bunch of screw along with a long metallic cabke. A parallel between human stitch, with sewing threads and the material he had with him right now. He could manage something between human fixing and mech repairing, that was what the ‘bio’ in bioengineer stood for.

The kid would be ok. He would live and tell Ratchet why he fell from the sky, and maybe if he saw his friend Jazz….out there…….

.

.

—————————————————

:)) @keferon

(I swear I’m not insane, your AU is just kinda giving me infinite drawing stamina lmao)

[gold-onthe-inside]

greylist

verb (transitive): to hold (someone) in suspicion, without actually excluding him or her from a particular activity

who? spencer reid (s6, post-JJ, pre-Doyle) x tech analyst!reader summary: when your celebratory drink with penelope is disrupted, you end up at a bar with the person you famously cannot get along with even if you were paid... until you do. based on: request by @brownbunnyb: I’m thinking something along lines of me being Penelope’s best friend and coworker and she sees how much me and Spencer bump heads and she sets me up on a blind date and the guy end up being Spencer (she does it on purpose) and we get a little too tipsy and he invites me over to his place and I stay the night and he confess his feelings bc he assumed I was sleeping word count: 3.4k a/n: r is an intelligence analyst for the counterintelligence division, and roommates with penelope, famous for not having any of the pleasance and charm that penelope does (the grumpy to her sunshine) and for not getting along with men, including spencer. i may have gotten carried away with it.

You don't get many off days in counterintelligence, but when you find a chain of coded messages about a military officer in Alaska trying to sell classified documents to the Russians, and manipulate him right into the hands of an undercover operative, you have to celebrate somehow. There aren't many easy wins in your line of work, not like Penelope who comes to your shared apartment with an arrest on her belt almost every week, and when you hear the front door close, Penelope walking in with her heels in hand, you have no doubt that she's on a high from a solved case.

"Hey, so I figured we'd leave in 15," you said, stepping out from the bathroom in a sleek black dress with a cut out by your hips, your walk stuttering at the sight of Kevin in the doorway behind Penelope, who was wincing. "And you forgot," you said, unsurprised, your hands falling from your ear where you had just fixed a gold hoop.

"I'm so sorry," Penelope cried, rushing towards you. "I swear, I swear I had it written somewhere that we were going out, but this reservation opened up at L'Auberge, and you know we've been on the waitlist for months--"

You held up your hand, stopping her. "Go," you said, with patience that seemed to be bottomless when it came to Penelope.

"I swear, I will make it up to you right now," Penelope said and you frowned instantly as she pulled out her phone.

"You don't have to--"

"Ba-bup, nothing out of you," Penelope interrupted, picking up the phone. "You're going to a bar. I don't wanna hear any excuses, you still owe me for Friday. You will be there by 7." She looked to you. "7?"

You shrugged helplessly, glancing at Kevin who just seemed amused by his girlfriend.

"Where are you going?" Penelope repeated the question, then looked at you.

"Crown and Crow," you said, knowing better than to get in Penelope's way, watching her as she repeated it to the phone, then snapped it shut, looking at you with a giddy smile.

"Okay, have fun, don't be mean, and have a cute cocktail on me," Penelope said, kissing your cheek, leaving a smear of lip gloss. "You deserve the win," she said, then promptly disappeared off to the bathroom to change for her own date.

You looked at Kevin. "Home by midnight, no more than three drinks, capiche?" you said, firmly and he held up his hands in surrender to you.

"I couldn't afford it," he said and you nodded, satisfied. You slipped into your classic black pumps, grabbed your purse, keys, and a black coat before stepping out, the door closing before you remember to ask Penelope who your date for the night was.

You're on your first drink when he arrived, almost spitting it out at the sight of Spencer as he searched the bar for Penelope. If you rush into the bathroom, maybe you don't have to deal with him tonight… but then he spots you, and frowns as he raised a hand before walking over. "No Penelope?"

"Date with Kevin," you replied, not hiding your sourness. Don't be mean, my ass. This is her making it up to me?

"Oh," he said, looking confused. "So… why am I here?"

"Evidently, Pen's playing matchmaker tonight," you said, keeping your voice even and he sighed.

"Should've figured," he said quietly, then gestured to the empty seat beside her. "May I?"

"Since you're here," you replied, sipping your rum and coke.

"I take it I'm not who you expected," he said as he flagged the bartender for a soda.

"Given the history of our interactions, no, you're not." You watched his arm fall to the oak bar, his hazel eyes on you, sparkling darkly in the low amber light.

"Disappointed?" he asked and you took a breath in.

"It's not all you," you said, tipping the glass as you take a sip. "Supposed to be celebrating an op, but Penelope bailed."

"Criswell's case?" he asked and you sighed, his question stinging like the back of your throat.

"Criswell's case," you scoffed. "I do all the work and he's the one they credit? I swear to God, you Special Agents--"

"It's hardly my fault that Criswell's name gets put on the report. He was the arresting officer--"

"Only because I led the guy right to him," you argued, looking at Spencer and then you just sighed. "You don't get it. You're not an intelligence analyst."

"No, I do," he insisted. "I know you think we all come home with wins every week, but it's not me, or the BAU, or even the FBI that gets the credit. It's the local police department who can't pull their heads out of the asses, sorry, long enough to realise that all they need is to empathise to catch their killers."

You looked at him, with a mix of surprise and respect, and a little amusement at his apology after saying 'asses', and he ran out of steam at your look. "T-The point is, I get it," he continued. "You probably don't sleep for days, and if you do, it's not enough. You're probably going to suffer from debilitating eye strain in your 70s, and all for some half-wit tactical analyst to get the credit. You're right to be pissed, but getting mad at me isn't gonna get you anywhere."

You wet your stained lips, downing the rest of your glass, and stare at it for a moment. "I've been kind of unfair to you, haven't I?" you asked, looking at him.

Spencer looked at his clear glass, bubbles of soda rising to the surface. "Kind of feels diminutive," he said and you laugh, a brightness in your eyes that wasn't there a minute ago.

"Be grateful I admitted anything at all," you said and he nodded graciously.

"Of course. Thank you for the bare minimum," he said and you huff.

"Look at that, the robot knows sarcasm," you teased and he made an offended noise before watching you snicker. "So, just the soda or are you gonna drink something stronger?"

"Just the soda," he said and you know better than to ask as you order yourself a mojito. "So, how did you do it?" Spencer asked. "How'd you track him down?"

You shrugged, not particularly in a bragging mood. "It wasn't that hard, really. I already had an alert set up for requests for encryption keys, and there was no reason for this military officer in Alaska to request them. He didn't have the clearance or approval from someone who did to have eyes on it. All I did was figure out what he wanted access to and fudge it and put a code in so I could track the user before giving him the encryption key. Then it was just a matter of posing as a buyer for the intel."

"Child's play," Spencer remarked dryly, his lips curling and you shrugged.

"If you can learn sarcasm, I can learn humility," you said, sipping your mojito and it was his turn to laugh quietly.

"It's a new look on you," he said, meeting your gaze, and you're not sure if it's the rum, but there's a moment of tension, and you're half-convinced he's leaning in to kiss you when your phone beeped and it shatters like you've dropped your glass. You fumbled through your purse for your cell, pulling it out to find a text message from Penelope.

Penny: Kevin's staying the night.

How was this night getting worse by the minute?

You: Can't you go to his place?

No reply. It turned out your bottomless patience wasn't so limitless, and Spencer could tell.

"Problem?" he asked, raising his soda to finish it.

"It appears I'm homeless for the night," you replied, downing your entire mojito in one go.

"Hey, hey, slow down," he insisted, pulling the glass away from you, but it was just mint and ice now. "What do you mean?"

You grasped Spencer's shoulder. "See, Data, when two people go out on a date, which is a kind of human mating ritual, one of them offers their habitat to copulate in, never mind the other females who maybe sharing said habitat," you said, mocking and he swatted your hand away, knowing you well enough to know you were just projecting your irritation on to him.

"You could just say that Garcia was taking Kevin home, you don't have to be so--"

"Mean?" you asked hollowly and Spencer pursed his lips.

"Hostile," he replied and you nodded.

"It's fine, I'll just flirt with someone and let them take me to their place," you said, slipping off your seat.

"Hey, no," Spencer said firmly, his hands loosely grasping your arms. "A) you're drunk--"

"I had two drinks--"

"And B) Penelope would kill me if I let you become one of our cases. You can stay with me."

"What? No," you protested. "I'm mean and unfair to you, why would you--"

"Because no matter how much disdain you hold for me, I'm not actually a bad guy," he said patiently. "Can you honestly tell me you trust anyone else in this bar to not take advantage of you?"

You sucked your cheek in and sighed. "No," you said petulantly, and Spencer stood up, holding your coat up for you to help you into it.

He doesn't drive and you share Esther with Penelope who needed it tonight, so you're on the Metro back to his place, Spencer's hand on your waist keeping you standing until there's a place to sit. You realise, rather dully, that if you weren't wearing your coat, his hand would have found the cut-out of your waist, and you wonder what it feels like. "I'm never drinking rum again," you murmured. Clearly, it was poisoning your mind.

"Sure, you won't," he said dryly, standing in front of you and you have to look up at him to see his eyes.

"You're really tall," you said, distastefully. You don't like having to crane your neck just to look at him… not that you like looking at him. It's easier to be mean, you decide, when you can look him in the eye.

"I'm sorry, the doctor said there's no cure for it," he replied, clearly mocking.

"I could always lop your knees off," you said helpfully, smiling up at him and he snorted.

"I think they've been through enough." He watched the frown form on your forehead, and, stupid impulse, he moved his hand to smooth it out. "I was shot in the knee a couple years ago," he explained. "Reconstructive surgery."

"Must make kneeling hard," you said without thinking and he tilted his head at you, his hand returning to your waist.

"Was that a joke?" he asked and you shook your head.

"No, I'm just--" The train jolted and Spencer grabbed your hips before you could fall, your hands on his arms. "Embarrassing," you finished as he righted you, then guided your hands to the pole. He was warm, smelling like Irish espresso. It must be nice, being his girlfriend, smelling that all the time. What is wrong with me?

The rest of the ride is silent, and then he's guiding you out of the carriage and onto the station closest to his apartment. He tapped both your metro cards, which you don't remember giving to him, before walking out of the subway with his hand on the small of your back, and you're out of quips and clever things to say. You didn't think that was possible, but maybe the train jolted it out of you. Or maybe the rum did. But you're silent all the way to his apartment, and a little curious about how he lives.

He lets you in, letting go of your waist, and you don't see how his hand clenches, too busy taking the apartment in. The wall's a lovely green and he has lamps that remind you of old libraries with the green steel shade, and he has bookshelves everywhere, nothing with a contemporary cover on it. They're all old hardbounds that you're compelled to touch reverently, foreign titles that you're able to decipher. "Of course you have War and Peace in the original Russian," you scoffed, tracing the golden Russian letters while he set your purse down on his coffee table.

"You can read it?" he asked, surprised and you look at him with narrowed eyes.

"How do you think I posed as a Russian buyer of international secrets?" you asked and he held his hands up in surrender.

"My bad," he admitted, trying not to look impressed. But it was the truth, you were impressive. It was impressive enough how skilled you were at coding and creating algorithms, able to take over for Penelope without complaint from anyone but Derek who would get shut down every time he tried to call you baby girl. In a lot of ways, you were like Penelope, always ready with a pop-culture reference and a barb, preferring steel over sexual innuendo. In the early days, he had been sensitive to it, avoiding you when he could, but he'd seen your softer side when Penelope had been shot, how you'd been unafraid to yell at Rossi for pushing the boundaries of interrogation with her. He knew you were kind, really, you just weren't very generous with it.

He filled up a glass of water, walking over to you, doing his best to keep his gaze off your waist as he passed it to you, noticing you perusing the Art of War… in the original Chinese. "Don't tell me… Chinese too?"

"Kind of a prerequisite for counterintelligence," you said, swapping the book for the water, and an uncomfortable expression flashed across your face, shifting in your heels. He was an idiot, he should have noticed it. You were standing for so long in the train. You frowned as he knelt silently, hand grasping your ankle and you lifted your heel so he could take it off. One, then the other. "Thanks," you said quietly, unused to his kindness.

"It's not that hard," he said, standing up, putting your heels by your purse.

"What is?" you asked and he looked back at you.

"Kneeling," he said simply and it's stupid but your heart stops for a second, caught off-guard. "I'm gonna get you something more comfortable to wear. Finish that."

Oh, this was not good. You were not going to catch feelings for a man you've told everyone you know, which is mostly Penelope, and by association Kevin, that you hate. Your phone beeps and you pick it up.

Penny: Talked to Emily, you can stay at hers.

Escape. Emily can pick you up, you get along with Emily just fine, Emily's not a tall brunet with hazel eyes and makes butterflies erupt in your stomach. Emily's safe. You could be safe… or you could be with Spencer.

You: Don't bother, I'm already at Spencer's. You owe me so big.

You simply hope it sounds more casual and unbothered than you feel.

"So, I couldn't find anything that fit-" he started and you flinched as he walked back into the room, holding sweats and a t-shirt, almost dropping your glass, and he looked at you with wide eyes. "Sorry, carpeted floors," he said, assuming that was why you were so startled, and walked over, swapping your empty glass with the clothes. "They'll have to do, I'm afraid."

You nodded. "Bathroom?"

"Inside, on your left," he said, frowning as you rushed away.

You have to roll up the legs of the pants so you can actually walk in them, too afraid to ask for shorts for the fear that he might just hand you a pair of boxers, and then you really would crack, just like that.

You stepped out eventually, finding him setting up the couch with blankets and pillows, and he looked at you, his expression unreadable in the low light. "I know, they're baggy and I look awful."

"No," he said quickly, sitting on the couch. "You don't. Look awful, that is. Even if they are baggy."

"Right," you said, if only to move on to something else. "Um… do you have any cotton balls or something? I have all this make-up--"

"Sure, yeah," he said, moving and almost tripping over the coffee table in his rush to service you.

"--wouldn't want to ruin your pillows," you said to deaf ears, following him with a frown as he retrieves a cosmetic bag from his dresser. "Why do you have that?"

"Uh…" He looked at you with a wincing expression. "Halloween," he said, hoping it would suffice, and it did. You've seen him come into work at the end of every October with props and gimmicks. Emily ended up pawning off a Baba Yaga head to you that still hangs in your cubicle. You've named her Meredith.

"Right," you replied and he handed it to you.

"What, no clever retort?" he asked and you shook your head.

"No, I think the cosmetic bag speaks for itself," you said, showing him the pumpkin shaped cartoons on it, and he sighed.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he said dryly and you snickered as you headed to the bathroom.

"Does Morgan know about your clown make-up?" you asked and he lingered in the doorway.

"Please don't," he begged, watching you dab removal cream on the pad and wipe your make-up away. You're teasing and mean, hostile and snappish, but you're not cruel. You've kept secrets for him before, like the magazine cover of him and Lila from 2005 that Emily almost finds if not for you distracting her with a linguistic question, your hand stealthily picking it out of his drawer, and then tossing it to him when she turned her back.

"Depends, do you have clown shoes somewhere in your closet?" you asked, smiling as you ridicule him.

"No, the shoes I rented, the nose I own, the hair I spraypainted," he said and you look at him.

"Seriously?" you asked with a giddy grin. "Please tell me there are pictures."

"What? No!" he retorted, in that high pitch where you know he's lying, "Even if there were, why would I show you?"

"Because you know I can find them anyway," you retorted.

"Not if they're not digital," he snapped back, thinking he's pulled a fast one until he sees your devious grin. "No. Absolutely not."

"You've made a horrible mistake letting me into your home," you said, grinning giddily.

"You're a terrible person," he said, blocking your way bodily. "Sadistic, twisted, horrible--"

"I'm gonna find it," you said, stepping towards him.

"Not if I lock you in here all night," he said, but it was weak, he knew it was. He'd cave the minute he heard your pleading voice, or pretending to vomit. You tilt your head at him.

"Show me the pictures, Spencer," you said and his shoulders sag.

"Alright, come on," he said, resigned, leading you to the bedroom and pulling at a locked drawer in his desk before picking up the album. You plopped onto the bed, curling your feet up underneath you, Spencer sliding into bed beside you with the album on his thighs. "Please don't be mean," he asked, looking at you with a pleading look.

"If I don't have something nice to say, I won't speak," you promised, and he opens it up, knowing it's the best you can offer. You instantly clap a hand over your mouth at the sight of ten year old Spencer dressed like a Russian gymnast. So, he was that extra as a kid too.

"You… dressed like that all night, and you survived?" you asked, looking at him and he shrugged.

"I didn't actually do much trick-or-treating. But my mom would help me make my costume and I'd watch scary movies when she was asleep."

There's a Ghostbuster's costume, a vampire costume, a Frankenstein costume, all creative and handmade, and you watch Spencer age through the photographs, until he's 14 and you're half-asleep on his shoulder.

A fondness warms his chest as he tucked hair behind your ear. He's never seen you unmade like this. You weren't as flamboyant as Penelope (you once said Bowie wasn't as flamboyant as Penelope), usually in greys, browns and blacks, with plain jewellery and simple make-up, and tonight had only gone up in tone by your eyeshadow, grey and silver, with black eyeliner.

But now? You looked vulnerable and pretty, unarmed, and he carefully laid you against the pillow. Maybe he thinks he'll get over it if he says it, or 'manifest' it like Penelope says, and it's not exactly a heavy thing he says, but he whispered it as he stroked your hair back in place.

"I wish you liked me as much as I like you."

[crimsonbubble]

könig WITH a size kink AND the gear stays on while he humiliates you pleasepleasepleaseee

cw. nsfw, gn!reader, size kink, the gear did in fact stay on, fingering, overstimulation, marking, spanking *not proofread, just pure horny

[heavily inspired by this fanart]

He’s massive

Like abnormally massive

And he gets off on it

There’s a sick enjoyment in doing what the pleases bc he knows you’re not strong enough to actually fight back

But he loves it when you struggle and fight so he can simply slip his fingers into your tight hole just to watch you squirm and struggle to muffle your moans

His favourite pastime is when he comes back from a gruelling mission and immediately goes to find you

He doesn’t stop to rest nor does he take his gear off

He’ll take you right then and there

He’s the type to make you cum on his fingers again and again just to work you open for his cock

All the while ignoring how you claw at his arms as you shake and writhe beside him

He’ll ignore you as he continues to read his book

Will barely spare you a glance as he reads, his fingers rubbing at your sweet spots with practised ease

There’s something so delightful seeing you struggle around him

Something so much smaller, so much more delicate than him, rubbing themselves all over him is a feeling that Konig will forever cherish

Seeing the way you whimpered and thrashed against him sets him off

He’s the type to throw you across his lap and absolutely wreck your greedy hole with his massive hands

As I said before, he likes it when you fight and struggle

So when he has you in his lap, he immediately pounces on you

He unintentionally leaves bruises on you bv he gets so in the zone with things that involve you

May or may not like to spank you just to see his handprints on your ass

He is a ruthless coronel and a man hardened by the trials of the military yet acts like a dog in rut

Just he just craves to sink into your warm and wet hole yet also wants to be loved

Side note: Konig is the type to pull on your bra strap or underwear band just to let it snap against your skin

[mesetacadre]

(sorry in advance for the more personal ask, you're the most intelligent person i know of when it comes to these things)

genuinely, how are we supposed to find the strength to go on? it feels like capitalism has won. only a few decades ago my country was openly and proudly socialist, and now we're nothing but an american military base with an economy. everything's been privatised, the unions are broken, the people are starving, and we keep voting for more of this! people are gleefully begging for yet more exploitation! sometimes it feels there's not a drop of class consciousness to be found in the entire country, and that it's pointless to even hope for change. how can i stay sane?

The class struggle is not a team sport which either side can win or lose. It is a historical and economic process, one that's inevitable. As long as capitalism exists, there will be a social majority of workers it must exploit, alienation will still happen, and a portion of these workers will be aware of this fact. The class struggle is also a long process, one that, most of the time, is imperceptible to the individual in physical and time scale. Only sometimes, it accelerates to dizzying speeds and the conditions necessary for taking power are met. We can talk about victories and defeats, but we can't lose sight of the fact that those "only" are points in time, momentaneous advances or retreats in the process that is the class struggle, but they never mean the paralization of this process.

We can only really talk about the bourgeoisie taking power and creating the first properly capitalist states in the late 18th century and early 19th, but the bourgeoisie had lead or taken part in attempts at or glimpes of revolution as far back as the early 16th century. The bourgeoisie never really had an unifying theory of the class struggle, most were never really fully conscious of it. But they still eventually took power, once the development of the national economies advanced so far that it forced the replacement of the feudal mode of production, the bourgeois revolutions became inevitable. Marx and Engels only ever saw one real attempt at the proletariat taking power, in the Paris Commune of 1871, but it only ever lasted a few months. They both were long dead when the first actually (relatively) long-lasting instance of the proletariat in power broke the oppressor classes' veneer of invincibility.

When Marxists talk of inevitability it is not in a conspiratorial manner, or an expression of satisfied optimism, we never mean that "one day the capitalists will get what's coming to them", in a vague way. We mean that, only if communists continue to work towards the revolutionary organization of our class, is a complete overthrow of capitalism inevitable. We should all do an exercise is historical perspective when it comes to analyzing progress, take the Marx and Engels example from the previous paragraph, they never got to see an effective application of their theories. Class consciousness will fluctuate continuously, it always has. The bolshevik party in 1913 had nothing to do with the party that lead the October Revolution, and 8 years after the defeat of the 1905 revolution, I bet many felt like their work was hopeless. My point is that, while the borders of the Communist Party may shrink, grow, or even disappear, and while we might be savagely oppressed, no system of oppression has ever lasted forever.

When it comes to revolutions, there are objective and subjective conditions. The objective we can never control; it's the stability of capitalism, the characteristics of its suprastructure, if there is a crisis or not. The subjective is what's under our control; our own work as communists, the state of the revolutionary party, the degree of influence of communists at the core of the working class. These two sets of conditions interact with one another, with the objective conditions influencing the possibility of development of the subjective conditions much more than the reverse. What makes you hopeless is in part the objective conditions. Capitalism is quite stable right now (though not as much as it ever seems), and, for now, we can't do much about it, because the subjective conditions, the other part of your homelessness, are also very delayed. But these we do have control over, at first very little, but as they improve, the control we have over them also increases. Essentially, friend, all we can do is prepare our class, do our best to gain more workers to our cause, bit by bit, so that once capitalism shows one of its cracks, we can be ready to pry those cracks open and bust the whole system. The Russian soldiers in WW1 were already discontent when the bolsheviks began to agitate up to the trenches, Mao's guerrillas grew to an army taking advantage of the deep fragmentation China suffered throughout the first half of the century, etc.

Once again, class struggle is not a straight line that we move in two directions. It is a complex space. The overthrow of the USSR was a very profound blow to revolutionary organizations all around the world, of course, but the state of communism in general in 1995 was still in a much better position than it was merely 90 years prior. Every defeat also sharpens the tactics and strategies we use. Eastern Europe (where I assume you're from) did use to be socialist, and those worker's states were overthrown. But you are still in a better position than a communist in the interwar period, facing borderline fascistic dictatorship and a future of Nazi-Fascist occupation. They did not have any precedent or much practical experience to learn from, but you do. Every day that we delay work, even in the most hopeless of contexts, is a day more that our grandchildren will have to bear in capitalism, and a day more they're deprived of true freedom and self-government

[machveil]

you may have heard of guard dog coded ghost.

but have you considered... puppy coded reader?

reader who simon pursued by following around initially. wooing them by his strength of personality and charisma alone (likely with a lot of help from soap tbh). so when they're finally a couple that adores each other, the reader ends up following him around as well. much to the surprise of the 141 who likely joked that simon is freaking the poor reader out prior.

if they're both military, it becomes a bit of a joke within the 141 where it's like watching two puppies chase each other's tails. if reader is a civvie, it's with the inclusion of the reader's friends getting worried and thinking that the reader is being harassed and stalked by a man they never saw before (they didn't know that the reader and simon are a thing now).

-- 📖

GuardDog!Simon “Ghost” Riley x Puppy!Reader wow that scratched an itch in brain—

GuardDog!Simon Riley who looks like he could kill a man (cough cough), who has dark brown, dead eyes and a cold gaze. if he’s walking down the pavement people will cross to the other side of the road, he just exudes an aura that threatens ‘I will bite and maul you’. but everyone’s attention is grabbed by you, a sweet, little thing happily tucked against his side. starstruck gaze, pretty eyes glued to him as you hold his rough, calloused hand. it’s like looking at a cute little purebred next to roughed up mutt

GuardDog!Simon Riley who acts like a well trained dog for you. you tell Simon to come, he’ll be by your side in an instant. if you tell Simon to bite? he’ll maul. he listens to his pretty little thing like he’s back on base - he’s always been good about following orders. he’s well trained in public too! he’ll fetch items he thinks you’ll like, buys you pretty little toys and accessories. he’ll sit and stay, arms wrapped around your waist as he pulls you to sit on his lap. the only command he struggles with is ‘off’, it’s just so hard to let go of you, puppy, it’s his job to make sure you’re safe!

GuardDog!Simon Riley who’s presence surrounds you constantly - from draping his jacket over you, making you use his shampoo and body wash, dangling his dog tags around your neck, biting and nipping at your neck to mark you up. his chest rumbles when you wear his clothes, too big on you. Simon treats you like his personal chew toy, a possessive gleam in his eyes when nips at your skin, red marks blooming when he pulls away. if you ever start to wander away from him he’ll gently loop his fingers under the chain of his dog tags, lightly tugging to bring your attention back to him. he’s not mad, puppies get distracted sometimes

[missadangel]

The Heart of Rome (Marcus Acacius x OC)

All Chapters List

XV. The Plan (+18, Smut, MDNI)

“Parcere proditori, proditio est innocenti.”

To spare the traitor is to betray the innocent.

Marcus, after leaving you in the poorhouse, made his way to Palatine Hill. He had a bad feeling about it and it was getting worse. It was tough for him to leave you each time. However, today's council was of greater importance than any that had preceded it. It might be the case that this could alter the course of Rome and his own fate.

He got the latest update from his soldiers before heading into the Domus Severiana. He had trust in the Praetorian guards at the gate and those in the courtyard, but with Geta's safety at stake, he couldn't be sure. Octavius met him in the courtyard and followed him into the armoury to help him put on his armour. The next step was to get Geta to the Curia Julia safely. He must do this on his own, with his most trusted soldiers. As a Roman general, Marcus was an expert in a variety of military strategies and tactics, with a particular focus on offensive operations. It was for this reason that he maintained a considerable military presence on the Field of Mars, prepared for any eventuality. They were ready to act on his orders. He had invested a great deal of time and effort in training them, with the aim of making them all well-raised soldiers and ensuring they were prepared to take action should the need arise. He was certain that he would eventually have to deal with the Praetorian Guard. However, since you came into his life, his priorities have shifted somewhat. He was no longer seeking to overthrow the Emperor, but rather to assist him in becoming a capable leader for Rome. Perhaps he was reluctant to witness further unrest and conflict in the city. He was willing to do whatever he could to ensure a brighter future for his own and for all Roman children.

Marcus put on his armour and armed himself with his sword before heading to the courtyard with Octavius. Geta and his mother, Julia, were there, too, with a few guards awaiting him. As soon as Geta saw them, he walked toward them.

"Acacius, where's my sister? Why didn't you bring her with you?" he asked, a little louder than necessary.

"She's somewhere safe, so there's no need to worry."

"That's nonsense! You should have brought her here with you. I don't think it's a good idea for her to stay outside the palace right now."

Marcus gave him a stern look. "So you're the one who ordered the guards to look for her everywhere?"

"Yes, I wasn't sure how Macrinus would take the council's urgent decision, so I thought maybe I could bring her here this way."

Marcus strode over to him, looking angry, which made Geta tense up.

"You knew she was with me."

"But I didn't know where you were, so I had to get them to look for you both. Roughly half of the guards were still on his side. I just wanted to make sure that my guard could find you before anyone else did."

Marcus tried to calm down, taking a deep breath. "This shows that the palace isn't a safe place either. Fortunately, she's safe now, my men are protecting her," he said then. “May I ask how the Council decided to meet today?” His eyes shifted to Julia, but she averted her gaze.

"It is difficult to convey the extent of my mother's efforts, but we have now gained the upper hand in the council," he said, winking at her. “It was unanimously agreed that an urgent meeting should be convened, today.”

Marcus was not interested in the specifics of her success. “I see.” He murmured.

“So let's proceed with the next steps and conclude this, shall we?”

Marcus nodded. "Indeed."

By noon, Geta and Julia's carriage had arrived at the Roman Forum. As they made their way through the streets, they were accompanied by other soldiers and guards who appeared to be loyal to Geta for the time being. The members of the Senate were already assembled in the Curia Julia. While Geta and Julia proceeded up the stairs, Marcus followed at a distance, taking care to observe his surroundings. However, the issue was not external, but rather within the Council chamber itself. Some of the Council members were absent, and it was not difficult to discern which ones. The other members expressed their concerns about their absence, and Geta was insistent on commencing the session. However, this was contrary to the law. Therefore, they decided to wait, but this was about to exacerbate the situation further. Marcus was concerned that this endless waiting time might be a sign of something bad.

‘What is this place? Where are you taking me?’ you asked Macrinus. You followed him through narrow streets and then through a tunneled passage into a large building.

"You will see it soon enough, my lady." He replied confidently.

You didn't want to come to this strange place with that bastard, but you had no choice. He had his plans for today, no doubt about it. You soon passed through the stone walls that resembled those under the Colosseum and observed a group of men. They were all members of the Senate, and you knew them at once by their white togas.

"What's the meaning of this?" Your voice was loud.

Macrinus ignored you, and the members of the Senate looked at you with a hint of hesitation.

"You really brought her," said one of them.

"I always get what I want, consul. You should have known this by now." Macrinus grinned then clasped his hands. "Now that we have the princess, we shall move on to the next stage."

"Consul Macrinus, I'm not entirely convinced if that's the best course of action. I think it is unwise to abduct General Acasius' wife, the princess, and force them to cooperate." One of them said.

"Council must have met by now. Geta's guards will be looking for us."

"And do not forget the Acacius's soldiers!"

"Cease the complaining!" Macrinus yelled at them. "Why can't you see the opportunity that I see? They can't start the session without us, yet they can't make a decision either. And as for Geta, he is not like Caracalla." He turned towards you. "He values his sister more than you realise.” Then looked at them once again. "So, Acacius will bring us Geta with his own hands and hand him over, and I will kill him. This will make my path to the throne. Then we'll all win. See? It's straightforward. There's no need to complain like old ladies, is there?”

"You'll all be punished for this!" You shouted. “You'll lose your statues, your title, everything you have! Release me at once, I'm warning you!"

The consuls exchanged glances, and Macrinus became visibly upset and approached and grabbed your arm.

"I see you've been very talkative since I last saw you, Aurelia. However, you're wasting your breath. I'll take your brother's life eventually and become an emperor.”

"It will never happen!" You barked. He touched your hair, and you turned your head to the other side in disgust. "You will witness it. I will make sure of that." He looked at the guards. "Take the princess away and lock her up."

"Let go of me!" You resisted, struggling. But the guards ignored you.

It didn't seem like an easy situation to get out of this time. Your chest tightened as you considered the possibility that he might win. If that were to happen, it would undoubtedly mean losing everything. It would be disastrous.

You descended the stone stairs and were taken aback by what you saw. There were cells with iron bars, like a dungeon. You stopped and looked at the guards.

“Please keep walking, my lady.” His tone was stern.

When you refused, the guards looked at each other and one of them grabbed your arm.

"'Let go of my arm!" You yelled, trying to fight back but to no avail. The other one opened the door to one of the cells and they forced you inside.

"I am your princess! You can't do this! Can't you hear me?"

They kept ignoring you, and locked the cell. You gripped the bars.

"Please, don't do this, let me out! Please!" Your voice was pleading this time, but it seemed to have no effect on them. One of them stood by the bars and the other near the stairs. You gave up begging, turned your back on them, and looked into the cell. It was almost the filthiest place you had ever been. The stone walls looked like weathered rock. The floor was dirty, dusty and filthy. You were so tired, that your feet were about to betray you, but you had no intention of sitting down or leaning against the wall, so you decided to cross your arms and just wait. You had never felt so helpless, not even when you were running away from Flavius in the woods. There was nothing more horrible than having your freedom taken away, the feeling of being trapped made your chest ache.

Before long, you heard footsteps echoing through the hall. You looked in that direction and saw the guards nodding to Macrinus. He had his usual self-assured look on his face, bowing respectfully to you as if he had done nothing wrong.

You went over to the iron bars. “Get me out of here at once!’

He gave a little smirk. “I'm really sorry about the poor facilities, my lady, but I am a little unsure that you'd behave yourself. After all, you have a very stubborn and determined temperament.”

You pursed your lips. “What's this place anyway? What gives you the right to lock me in here?”

Macrinus put his hands on the iron bars and observed as if he were seeing them for the first time. “This is where the gladiators stay. They get their first training at this school before heading to the Colosseum."

"Do I look like a gladiator to you?"

Macrinus laughed. "Of course not, my lady. Let's just say I'm playing it safe."

"Locking me up won't convince me of anything."

"Is that so? Hmm, maybe not you, but I think I could easily persuade your brother or your husband. They both care a lot about you after all."

You took a step towards him. "What exactly are you planning? As soon as you ascend to the throne, you will exile my husband, declare our marriage null and void, and force me to marry you?”

“More or less, yes.”

"That's not going to happen! I'm never going to marry you, not in this life, or the next!" Your voice bounced off the cold stone walls with a ringing sound.

Macrinus seemed serious this time. "Then you'll be stuck under home detention for the rest of your life. There won't be a general husband coming to your rescue, nor a foolish brother in hopeless in love with you either."

"Shut your damn mouth!" Your body was shaking with anger.

"I'm giving you one last chance, Aurelia. Think carefully. Once Geta's gone, I'll be the new emperor. And then you'll do what I want." Macrinus put his hands on the bars just above yours. "'I thought it would be better to exile Acacius for his heroism, so that would not provoke a public outrage, but if you try my patience and resist, I will make you watch him die in the Colosseum. I swear I will."

You swallowed, even the thought was enough to make your heart ache. "I am carrying his child, how can you be so heartless, so damned?”

"A child?” He laughed. “As a medicus I'm sure you can find ways to get rid of that.”

"Damn you!" You reached through the bars to hit him in the face, but he grabbed your hand. He made you put your hand on his collar. There was a marking on his chest.

"Take a look at this! Do you know what this is? It's your father's mark!"

You observed the mark. "Were you a slave?"

Macrinus released your hand and you pulled it back.

"I was, during your father's time, but I managed to get into the senate. He was a strong and powerful man, your father. A soldier, a dictator, and a tough opponent. I learned a lot from him, Aurelia. But I still couldn't gain his trust, no matter how hard I tried. Fortunately, his sons weren't like him."  He pointed his finger at you. "You're more like your father than they are. I realised the first time I saw you in Egypt. Look, no matter how much you refuse, you can't escape what's coming. I will get what I deserve."

"No, that will never happen. You will lose. No one will remember you."

This time he sounded angry. "I made you a princess! You got your title back thanks to me! How about a little gratitude?”

"I was planning to come here anyway. Vicius and I had been planning to travel to Rome together to find my true family. If circumstances had been different the rebellion hadn't broken out, and the Roman soldiers hadn't come to put it down. That night..." You took a moment to collect your thoughts. Despite the pain that these memories still evoke, you have learned to embrace them because they have led you to meet Marcus. "He had already told me everything, except who my father was. We were going to open the letter together as soon as we arrived in Rome. You only hastened the process.”

"Vicius," he said, sounding annoyed. He then took a deep breath. "I've had some success in this process, but also had a few failures, and that man is one of them. If he'd handed you over to me then, before Geta and Caracalla ascended the throne, things might be different now."

His disrespect for Vicius was unacceptable and made you even angrier.

"What about Gaius? Isn't he also a great failure of yours?"

"Well, not entirely. If he hadn't taken your father's letter to him as an offer to marry you, who knows, he might still be alive now. He was the one who caused his own death. It's in my interest for him to die if there's any chance of him ascending to the throne." He smiled, but then his face turned angry again. "But he's not the biggest failure or obstacle." He said as he approached the bars, his face was close enough to touch the surface of the iron bars. "Acacius. He's the biggest obstacle that needs to be removed from my path, and I'm going to make sure that I do."

You brought your face closer to his. "My husband, Acacius, will be the end of you. You can be sure of that.”

He put a hand to his chin as if he was thinking. "I am doubt about that Aurelia. Because you see, soon, he will be preoccupied with bringing Geta to me. And once he does, I will take your brother's life and that will be the end of your husband as well." He grinned. "My plan is working perfectly and I will get what I want."

"He is not stupid. He will not fall into your trap.”

“He has no choice. He'll do anything to get you back, I know that."

You knew he was right and you hated it.

"Enough talk. Time to take action." He turned towards the guard. "If there's any trouble, kill her."

You swallowed, trying to stay calm. He then bowed his head to you and headed towards the stairs.

As time passed, the atmosphere in the Curia Julia became increasingly tense. Marcus was at breaking point, and Geta was no different. As Octavius rushed into the hall, almost tripping on the stairs, everyone looked at him with curiosity.

"Sir, you need to come outside," he said to Marcus, keeping his voice low.

"Is something wrong?"

Geta stood up and walked towards them.

"What's going on?"

Octavius’ face was grave as he was about to give them bad news. He looked at the councilors and then at his general. "Sir, Macrinus sent a guard to speak with you..." Octavius looked down in distress.

Marcus frowned, wondering if he was about to hear what he feared most.

"What does he want? Speak at once!" Geta shouted.

Julia tried to calm the council members.

"Princess Aurelia..." Octavius exhaled a deep breath. "Macrinus has abducted her-"

Without even thinking, Marcus stormed to the entrance to leave the hall. Geta followed him, but his mother grabbed his arm.

"Your Majesty! You must stay here-"

"You do that!" he said, roughly pulling his arm away from her.

Marcus rushed down the stairs and, noticing the guard Octavius had pointed at, grabbed his sword and held it to the man's throat. The guard let out a little gasp. "Tell me where she is now!' He roared.

All the soldiers and guards tensed and gripped the hilt of their swords.

"General Acacius, Sir Macrinus is waiting for you at his villa." He said, out of breath, struggling to get the words out. "He also said that he wants you to bring Emperor Geta with you."

“How dare he summon me like this?” Geta shouted. "Acacius, round up your men, and let's move to take him out now, shall we?"

The soldiers looked at their general. Seizing the opportunity of Marcus' thoughtful demeanor, Macrinus' guard took a step back.

"Sir Macrinus only wants the general and Emperor Geta." He stated arrogantly. "If you care about the Princess, you'd better do as-”

Suddenly a schwing sound was heard and Octavius's sword severed his jugular, and he collapsed, tumbling down the stairs and staining the marble steps with his blood. They all watched him die with a deadpan expression.

"Why wait? We must leave now Acacius," Geta touched his shoulder.

Marcus shook his head. “No, he'll kill you the moment I take you there, I can't let it.”

"I'm flattered, general, but this is your wife we're talking about, my sister."

Marcus sheathed his sword. "I am aware, but we must act wisely. If we fall into his trap, it will be the end of us all, which is exactly what he wants us to do."

"So we'll just leave Aurelia in his filthy hands?"

Marcus gave him a deadly look. "Don't you dare speak like you care more about my wife than I do!"

"Then act like you do!" Geta barked.

“General Acacius! Emperor Geta!”

They both turned to face the man calling to them. A man in a black cloak, familiar to Marcus, came up the stairs and approached them. The soldiers tensed, but Marcus gestured to them that it was all right.

"Who the hell are you?" Geta asked, squinting at the man.

"I am Lextus, Your Majesty," the man said, bowing. He looked at Marcus and then back at Geta. "I have something very important to tell you, both of you."

"Man of yours?" Geta asked Marcus.

"No, he is a relative of yours, from Leptis Magna, didn't your mother tell you?"

Geta gave him a dirty look.

"Speak up, what's so important?" Marcus asked.

"We've been tracking Macrinus for a while and we know where he is."

"If that's what you wanted to say, you've come in vain," Geta said, pointing to the guard's lifeless body lying at the bottom of the stairs.. "That cunt Macrinus is already waiting for us to go to him."

"It's a trap, he's luring you into it, Your Majesty. The Lady Aurelia is not with him, she is elsewhere," he said, and as soon as he mentioned your name, Marcus and Geta's eyes locked on him. "We know where he's keeping her, that's what I came here to tell you."

Marcus grabbed him by the collar of his cloak. "How do you know? When did you see her? Speak at once!"

"The General asked you a question!" Geta demanded.

Lexus hadn't expected either of them to react this way, he had to take a breath to speak. "Praetorians with Macrinus' lead intercepted Lady Aurelia's carriage in the alleyway. We followed the carriage, which took us straight to Ludus Magnus. We saw Lady Aurelia enter with the guards, and I have men stationed there to keep an eye on things. We are unsure why, but we know some consuls are there."

Geta looked at Marcus. "Why would he take her to the damn gladiator training school? What is he trying to do?"

"Tell me, is Macrinus still there or in his villa?" Marcus demanded.

"He left a few hours ago, we believe he went to there."

"We need to get to Aurelia now!" Geta said.

"The guards will be watching us. If we head there now, they'll inform him. Or even worse, they might hurt her before we get there." Marcus said through clenched teeth.

"What are we going to do then?"

Marcus thought for a moment. He had to think fast and come up with a plan, but he wasn't sure what to do.

It was time to think strategically and take action. As a soldier and general, he was an expert in this. "We need to make some time," he muttered.

"So let's not waste, standing here," Geta whined, adjusting his crown.

Watching him, a plan came to Marcus' mind. "Your Majesty, we must take you to Palatine Hill immediately."

"Are you mad? Macrinus's men are all over the place. Didn't you just say so yourself?”

Marcus exhaled. “That's why we have to leave now. I'm asking you to trust me.”

Geta narrowed his eyes. "In the past, I wouldn't have trusted you, but now I think I do."

"You don't have much choice, after all," Marcus teased as they hurried down the stairs together.

Once Geta was in the carriage, Marcus called Aris over. "Head to the Field of Mars right away and let them know I've ordered the troops to assemble around Macrinus' villa. Try to be as stealthy as you can."

"Yes, sir." He said and quickly walked in the opposite direction.

"The rest of you, come with me," Marcus said. They all nodded and got on their horses.

Geta called out to him as the carriage was moving.  "Acacius, I hope you know what you're doing!"

He still didn't fully trust the other guards accompanying Geta, so he didn't want to tell him his plan yet.

"I need both your patience and your trust, Your Majesty."

"You've got both as long as you save my sister.”

Marcus felt his heart beating faster with worry. He really wanted to come and get you out of there as soon as possible. But he had to think carefully. He knew that if he acted without thinking things through, he might lose you. Besides, he had to be absolutely sure that he got Macrinus this time too.

The guards at Palatine Hill were surprised to see the carriage coming earlier than expected. Geta stepped into the courtyard with Marcus. He tried to take Geta away from the guards, however, two of them came over to them.

"General, we want to help you. We are loyal to the emperor Geta, you can trust us."

Marcus seemed unsure.

"They are in a dilemma because their commander has not yet been chosen, Acacius. Macrinus' side and mine." Geta explained.

"Yes, there are others outside who are on Macrinus' side, sir. But I'm not, and my team here are all loyal to you, highness.”

"You were always so keen to be a Praetorian," Marcus said, looking at the guard. He realised that he was his childhood friend.

"Do you remember me? I thought you might have forgotten." He gave a little smile.

"Yes, you weren't eager to join the army, so I didn't hassle you about it too much."

"I wanted to serve the emperor, General Acacius."

"I see," said Marcus, smiling back.

"I was really proud when I saw you become a general of Rome, you know."

Marcus nodded his thanks.

"That's very touching gentleman, but can you tell us what to do now, our glorious general?" Geta said impatiently.

"Cato!" Marcus called him to his side.

He came running at once. "Sir!"

Marcus put his hand on his shoulder. "We need your help."

Geta frowned. "Isn't that your squire? How can he help us?"

Marcus smiled confidently. "He has the same hair colour and the same size as you, your majesty."

"Excuse me?”

"We're going to confuse them. Could you take off your clothes and give them to Cato?"

Geta opened his eyes wide in surprise. "What did you just say? Tell me you are joking!"

Geta wasn't the only one taken aback. Cato and Octavius exchanged glances, clearly surprised.

Marcus let out a sigh. "He'll take your place, so we won't put you in danger."

"So this is your master plan, Acacius? You seem to have forgotten how clever that cunt is. Sooner or later, he'll figure out that your squire doesn't look handsome as I do." He said smugly. 

"It's not really a concern," Marcus said, grasping Cato's arm. "This buys us some time, at least. Until I get the Aurelia out of there."

They walked together to Geta's chamber. Geta grumbled the whole way but seemed to be convinced at last. Cato looked a bit out of place in the emperor's clothes. He glanced at them hesitantly. Marcus couldn't help but grin when he saw him in Geta's attire. Geta sized him up.

"Ugh, you look like another evil twin of mine! That is all I need!”

"Forgive me, Your Majesty." Cato said, bowing his head.

Marcus held out his hand to Geta. "Your Majesty, can you give me your crown too?"

"Gods above! This is disrespectful and unacceptable, Acacius!"

Marcus rolled his eyes. "It's just a symbol, an item. It has no significance. You don't need the crown to prove that you are an emperor, do you?"

“Huh, you just enjoy lecturing me, don't you?" Geta pursed his lips.

"We're running out of time here."

"Fine!" He gave his crown to him. Cato held his breath as Marcus placed the crown on his head.

"Hmph, if this won't work, I swear on Vesta's fire that I will punish you Acacius."

Marcus smirked in response.

Geta tugged fabric of his gown which made him look like a commoner. '"Whatever, let's get this done as soon as possible and then I shall drink wine until I get drunk so I can forget all about it." He refused to look at their faces as he left his chamber.

As they descended the stairs, Marcus touched Cato on the shoulder. "Keep your face hidden at all costs. Even if they can't see it from a distance, there's still a risk."

"I'll do my best, general."

Marcus tapped his back. "May the Gods be on our side."

And as they approached the entrance to the great courtyard, they put their plan into action.

"Your Majesty, please," Marcus gestured to Geta.

Geta pursed his lips and involuntarily pulled the deep black cloak further up over his head. The gate opened and Marcus approached the carriage with Cato who was in the Emperor's toga, covering his face as naturally as possible. Cato struggled and pretended to resist him. The guards waiting outside, watching them, did not seem to suspect anything. Marcus swiftly pushed Cato into the carriage and told the coachman to start the horses. He then turned to the guards.

"Lead the way!" He said to them. They kicked their horses toward in front of the carriage. Marcus and the others got on their own horses, following the carriage from behind.

The other guards, those who had stayed behind in the palace to protect the real emperor Geta, put on their cloaks over their armour. They were going to take him back to Curia Julia in secret. It was already pretty quiet, as everyone else had left to accompany the false emperor. As per the plan, Marcus must turn his horse around halfway down the road and head for the Domus Vectiliana (Ludus Magnus).

After all, they were acting as if they didn't know where you were, and leading Geta straight into Macrinus' hands which it was not. So the plan was working perfectly. A little later, Marcus glanced at Octavius, and turned his horse round, making the guards surprised. The carriage kept going forward. They looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Their leader cursed and called out to some of them.

"Go after the general! The others stay with me!”

Marcus looked back over his shoulder at the guards who were chasing him as he rode his horse at a gallop. There were five of them. He needed to get rid of them without attracting attention.

"Come on!" He challenged them, drew his sword and turned his horse. He had one of them in his sights. He aimed at his leg and lunged before he could draw his sword, and the man let out a groan and fell off his horse. They were getting closer to the streets.The others yelled and drew their swords, rushing to attack Marcus but he was quick to dodge the attacks of two of them and managed to knock them off their horses. He rode his horse into the alleys to get rid of the rest. People screamed and ran to get out of the way to avoid being crushed by the horses.

"Where the hell is he heading to?" One of them asked the other.

"I think he found out where the princess is! Go there and warn the others before he gets there!”

As soon as they said that, they were both struck down by arrows from nowhere and fell to the ground. Marcus turned and saw Lexus and his men. He stopped his horse and nodded his thanks. Then, without wasting any time, he ordered the curious people out of the way and kicked his horse forward again. Since there was no obstacle in his way, he should be heading to get to you now.

The minutes and hours passed by, and the pain in your legs became increasingly difficult to bear. And you gave up. As you sat on the floor in the cold, smelly, dirty cell, you played with the wedding ring on your finger. Your mind was racing with questions. Why wasn't anyone coming? Or is it too late for everything now? Marcus, Geta... Your heart ached. It was torture, waiting there helplessly, hoping for rescue desperately, unable to do anything. You suddenly felt a pressure under your belly, right where your womb was. You put your hands right on it.

"Ssshh, calm down, my little one. I know you've been through a lot, but hang in there a little longer, please. Your father will come to save us, I promise you. Take his strength, take his courage and hold on. Our little miracle. We will always love you and protect you. So please try to hang in there.”

All of a sudden, a few shouts and the sound of swords clashing came from upstairs. The guards immediately tensed up and gripped the hilts of their swords. You jumped to your feet, unlike them, you felt excitement. Your heart was filled with hope. The sound of the iron gate opening loudly reverberated off the stone walls, and a moment later you saw a guard rolling down the stairs with the deafening sound of his iron armour ringing in your ears. The guards immediately drew their swords at someone on the stairs. First, you heard his angry roar and then Marcus himself rushed down the stairs, kicked one of the guards, and pushed him against the wall. The other swung his sword at him, Marcus crouched and lunged and cut his leg.

"Marcus!" You called out to him cheerfully.

He looked at you and smiled, but the other guard lunged at him, waving his sword.

"Marcus look out!" You pointed at him.

He managed to avoid the lunge at the last moment and hit his opponent in the back with the handle of his sword, causing him to stumble. As he lunged at him again, Marcus drew his pugio and knocked his sword out of his hand with both sword and pugio. And with a really neat move, he cut his neck. The stone walls were covered in a red, rusty-smelling liquid. You ran over to the iron bars and grabbed them. Marcus wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand and looked at you. He looked at you with an intense gaze, his brown eyes sparkling.

"My lady." He said in a soft, velvety voice. "Forgive me for being late." He reached his hand through the bars to touch your face. "How could he imprison you in such a vile place? Did he hurt you?"

You grasped his hand with both of yours and kissed it. "No, I'm alright, don't worry." You forced a smile.

"How can I not, my love? My beloved. My soul. My breath." He then let out a sigh of relief, stroking your chin with his thumb. "Thank the Gods I found you safe and sound." He then gripped the iron bars and jerked them angrily, cursing.

"That man has the key," you said, pointing to one of the guards lying on the floor. Marcus went to him, bent down, and turned his lifeless body to check.

"Geta? Is he okay?”

"He is for now. We don't have much time, though. We need to get out of here now." He took the keys from the man and approached you. He unlocked the cell, setting you free. You took a step towards him and reached out to hug him.

"My lady, there is some blood on me-" You wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his chest. "...and I'm not very clean." He finished his sentence with a murmur.

"I don't care." You said, closing your eyes and hugging him tighter. You ignored the blood smearing your cheek from his armour and the smell of it.

He lifted his hand to touch your hair, but his hand was covered in blood. He clenched his hand into a fist and wrapped his arm around you, inhaling your scent without touching you. He then pulled back.

"Aurelia, we have to leave, now." His voice was firm.

You nodded and walked towards the stairs while avoiding stepping in the puddle of blood on the ground. Marcus noticed your nervousness and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you into his lap. You looked at his face as he walked up the stairs with you in his arms. He looked very serious and stern, and you could guess what he was feeling, and what he was thinking. It must have been hard for him to find you in a situation where he almost lost you somehow, and to fight to make sure that didn't happen. To kill someone every time, to have blood on his hands. But for Marcus, finding you safe and sound was enough, he didn't care about the rest. He walked through the countless guards lying lifeless on the ground and carried you out in his arms. You were angry that he had to kill them because of Macrinus. It was all his fault, so many people had died because of him so far. Marcus lowered you to the ground beside his horse.

"It may be a bit of a rough ride, but try to hold on, will you?"

You nodded. "I can manage.”

He smiled and moved the saddle back a little so you could sit on it. He then settled in front of you. You put your arms around his waist. Marcus took hold of your arms around him. "Hold on tighter, princess."

Even though you couldn't see his face, you knew he was smiling. He grabbed the horse's reins and kicked his horse forward. You wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could. With each jolt, your cheek bumped against his back.

"Where are we heading now?" You asked.

As you passed the Colosseum, you noticed the sun was setting over the hills ahead.

"First, I'll take you to the Curia Julia."

You tilted your head to get a better look at his face. "I'm not coming with you?"

He raised an eyebrow and looked at you out of the corner of his eye. "No, Aurelia, I've got a few platoons of my soldiers heading to the area around Macrinus' villa. We need to get ready for the upcoming skirmish."

"You're going to fight the Praetorian Guards?"

He sighed, “I hope not. But if it's necessary to finish off Macrinus, yes.”

You swallowed, nothing was over yet. "Why Curia Julia?"

"Geta is there with the other consuls. The rest of the guards will be guarding them. It's the safest place for you right now.”

Marcus pulled up his horse near the stairs of the Curia Julia. He dismounted and then led you down. A few of the guards came over and nodded at you.

"If there's any trouble, make sure you keep Princess Aurelia and Emperor Geta safe." He spoke to one of them in a firm tone.

"We shall protect them with our lives, general! You just finish him off!" The man put his hand on his chest. "Vae victis.”

Marcus replied. "Vae victis." Then he mounted his horse quickly and looked at you.

"Come back safely!" You said, looking at him.

He nodded and turned his horse around, kicking it forward. You watched him leave until he was out of sight.

"This way, my lady," the guard said.

You felt abandoned as you climbed the stairs with him. Soon you heard a familiar voice.

"Sister!" You looked towards Geta's voice and your eyes widened in surprise. He was wearing a black cloak over regular attire. And what's more, he was in an official building like the Curia Julia with it.

He hugged you and pulled back to look at you. "I was so worried about you, are you alright?"

You nodded your head, it was a little strange to see him like this. "What happened to your fancy toga and crown?"

"Your husband's ingenious plan." He said, rolling his eyes. "Come, rest inside. Your face is as white as marble." He put his arm around you and pulled you inside.

As dusk fell, Marcus was urging his horse to a rapid pace, hastening towards Macrinus' villa. What he saw coming down the hill wasn't quite what he'd expected. His troops had already arrived and it was clear that a battle had taken place and probably been won, but Macrinus was nowhere to be seen.

"General!" One of the soldiers recognised him.

Marcus looked around and noticed Cato in the distance, who was wounded near the carriage ahead. Felix and Aris came over to him. "What the hell happened?" He asked them.

"Sir, the plan worked, but Macrinus wounded Cato and then they attacked us. We managed to kill them all, but unfortunately, he escaped and we couldn't stop him."

"How do you mean he escaped?" Marcus’ voice was like a roar.

"Octavius and a few soldiers went after him, sir."

"Which way did they go?"

"That way," Aris said, pointing down the hill.

"I'll go after them. All of you gather around at once. Take the wounded ones to the Field of Mars."

"Sir, what about them?"

Marcus looked in the direction he was pointing and saw the members of the senate who were loyal to Macrinus. They were looking at him with a look of concern on their faces.

"The rest of you, take them to the Roman Forum and wait there for my arrival." He said, looking at them from a distance. "Can you confirm that the other troops are still controlling the entrances and exits to the city?"

"Yes, sir. The city is currently sealed off."

"Good." He said, pulling on the reins of his horse, which reared up with a loud neigh. "Make them assemble at once and get moving!" He commanded.

As he rode, perhaps faster than he had ever ridden before, determined to catch Macrinus at any cost, he realised that he missed his horse, Dromos. He promised himself that when all this was over, he would return home and see his old friend again. And then he could go out riding with you again. However, at the moment, he just had to focus on finding and getting rid of the source of all his recent problems. Before long, he heard the sound of swords clashing, so he rode towards it. He saw his soldiers and the guards were fighting, but they seemed to be getting along.

"Octavius is following him, sir!" a soldier pointed ahead. Then he killed the guard he was fighting, and he jumped on his horse to follow his general. The other one did the same too.

Marcus was soon excited to realise that Octavius was running after Macrinus on foot. He was very close. Marcus called out to the soldiers behind him.

"Block his way!”

They did as he said and rode their horses around either side of Macrinus, to block him from going any further. He realised this and started running backwards. Marcus seized the chance and leaped off his horse to capture him. They ended up rolling on the ground together. Macrinus tried to fight back, but he was so tired that he gave up and collapsed, taking a few punches to the face from Marcus in the process.

The others walked towards their General. All of them stared down at the panting, treacherous, sixty-year-old dark-skinned man. Marcus drew his sword, Macrinus cursed, crawled back. But Marcus did something that even surprised himself. He thrust his sword into the ground right next to Macrinus.

Octavius touched his shoulder, "Sir." There were a lot of questions in his tone.

‘We're heading to the Roman Forum. Bring him along."

The soldiers looked at each other, confused.

"But sir..." Octavius protested.

"This cunt must be punished by the emperor Geta himself."

Macrinus gave a hysterical laugh, but it was clear he was upset with that decision.

"You don't deserve a painless death," he said, looking at him. "I'm sure the emperor has far more creative ideas for you."

The atmosphere in the Curia Julia was palpably tense, with everyone visibly anxious and on the brink of exhaustion. The noise was unbearable and it was giving you a headache. But Geta was determined. He had no intention of sending anyone home yet. This will be solved today, he said. He made you sit in the imperial seat that belonged to Caracalla, since you were exhausted, you didn't object, despite Julia's glare. Furthermore, it was clear that the Consuls had other matters to discuss, and did not care the fact that you were sitting there. Fortunately the murmuring of the crowd was soon heard outside, and everyone turned their heads in the direction of the footsteps approaching the hall.

Your heart pounded with both excitement and nervousness. You felt immense relief when you saw Marcus a short while later. Geta leapt to his feet and looked at him, his eyes wide open. Since you focused on Marcus' face and only later realised who he had brought to the middle of the great hall. When Macrinus fell to his knees on the floor, the consuls first looked at him in astonishment and then started shouting.

"Traitor!"

"He should be beheaded!"

"Throw him from Tarpeian Rock!"

Geta raised his hand and they all fell silent. You and Marcus looked at each other from a distance, wondering why he hadn't killed him. However, he was in a good mood and you were grateful to finally see his sincere smile.

"General Acacius." Geta called him. "On behalf of the Roman people, I am grateful to you for capturing this traitor and bringing him before me, before the Council. He will be judged here, before Roman law, and his final sentence will be given. The council is now in session."

"Your Majesty," someone stated. "I am afraid a council session is not yet feasible in these circumstances. Since your crown is absent and the attire you are wearing is not fit for this occasion. Furthermore, I must point out that it is inappropriate for two women to be present at this time. I demand that the necessary conditions be imposed."

And they all murmured, some agreeing and some objecting.

"Denied!" Geta said firmly. The man frowned and sat down. "Even without my crown, my true identity remains unchanged. Also, the women you are referring to are my mother, your empress, and my sister, your Princess, Aurelia."

Marcus looked at him with a confident half-smile. You could see the pride in his look.

Geta continued. "If there are no other ridiculous objections I will continue. You have all been waiting here all morning, so I will formalise things for the sake of Rome before I tire you out any further."

He silenced the murmurs and continued. His speech took everyone by surprise, including you. At the end of the session, the verdict was reached: Caracalla was declared a tyrant, and all his decrees, orders, wills, and other belongings were declared null and void. Macrinus tried to object several times, but no one dared to stand up for him or support him. Now it was his turn to be punished.

"He was really into training these gladiators and investing in them. Then I'd like to give him a fitting punishment." Geta said with a grin. Then he turned to him. "You will be thrown into the Colosseum, along with the rest of your followers. Your fate will be decided by the gods and the people of Rome." He looked at the guards. "Now get him out of my sight, I don't want to see his ugly face anymore."

Ignoring the pleas of the councilors who had helped Macrinus, Geta closed the session and everyone began to murmur once more. He came over to you, a big grin on his face.

"I can't wait to see that wretched Macrinus in the Colosseum tomorrow!"

You smiled in response. "You did well, brother."

He smiled widely. Marcus approached you both. Geta looked at him.

"Acacius, I'm surprised you didn't kill him, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad. It'll be fun tomorrow!" He said, clapping his hands. He winked at you and then went over to his mother.

You looked at Marcus. "I think it's finally over now. We can rest easy, can't we?"

"Yes, my lady," he said, holding your hand. "It's over now.”

You just stared at each other for a while, speaking through your eyes. The councilors left the hall, murmuring, while Geta and his mother had a brief argument. All of this faded into the background for you.

"Looks like we'll be spending another night on Palatine Hill."

Marcus smirked. "One last night. Then tomorrow we'll be heading back to the villa, our home."

You smiled. "Thank the Gods. I miss our home so much."

"I know, me too. Shall we leave now? I need a good bath, and as my wife, you can help me, can't you?" He smirked.

You lifted your head to whisper in his ear. "Anything you wish, my love.”

You arrived at Domus Severiana in the late afternoon. As soon as you stepped into the courtyard, you ordered the slaves to prepare the balneum for you two.

The stone walls of the balneum were softly caressed by the soothing steam of the hot water, while a variety of flowers floated on the surface, their sweet scent creating a tranquil atmosphere in this spacious bath house.  Marcus was in the water, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. You were right behind him, running your slender fingers over his flesh, rubbing his arms and shoulders, helping him to recover from the fatigue of the day.

"Your healing touch has refreshed my body and soul," he murmured. Then he took your hand and brought it to his lips, his collarbone, his chest, running it all over his body. Then he turned towards you, his movement causing some of the water to spill over. You swallowed as his eyes traveled over your naked body, your heart racing with excitement. He reached out for you, grabbed you around the waist, and pulled you into the water. "Now it's my turn to touch you.”

This time the water overflowed, and a lot of the flowers on the surface ended up floating away.

You giggled as Marcus ran his lips along your neck to your collarbone. "You meant to touch me with your lips? But I am in the water, so how are you going to touch the rest of my body I wonder?" You asked playfully.

"I sense a challenge." He murmured, his warm breath brushing against your collarbone. "I shall accept." He then grabbed your hips and lifted you, placing you on his shoulders. His head was between your thighs, your heels touched his back. You moaned with pleasure and laughed as his lips touched your folds. Your back arched instinctively as you felt his tongue in your most sensitive spot. You gripped his grey hair tightly with your fingers.

"Marcus! I am going to- ow!"

"Isn't it too soon, my love?"

You looked down at his face and saw that he was grinning.

"No, I meant to say that I'm going to fall, not come.”

He pulled his head back, supported your back with one hand and lowered you down onto the edge of the tub. "I've been a bit busy, I must have misheard." He grinned again. Without getting out of the water, he pulled you closer and continued where he left off. He stuck his marvellous tongue out and licked your most sensitive spot. You gasped and hitched your legs around his head, drawing him closer. He rolled his tongue up and down as he used his hand to probe at your lower lips. His beard tickled you as your breathing quickened. Adrenaline flooded your body as your pulled on his hair, bringing him closer, as he sucked and consumed you mercilessly. You bucked into him and he responded in turn with a little nip. You threw your head back as you gasped once more, feeling like you were losing your mind. Shaking, sweating, your entire body pulsed with pleasure as you clamped your legs around him.

You moaned loudly. "I am definitely coming this time!"

"Come for me, my love. Let me taste you.”

And immediately after his command, you came with a loud moan. Marcus kissed your belly and grabbed you by the hips, pulling you into the water. He kissed you on the lips with great passion, you wrapped your arms around him. The water made everything a little slippery, but Marcus was determined to grip your hips roughly, puling you closer. You wrapped your legs firmly against his waist, feeling his need press against you in the most delicious way. You couldn't stop your moans with each and every thrust and neither could he, and you began to feel him deeply inside you, he thrust deeper and deeper, pushing you both closer and closer to the edge. He grabbed your hair, gathering behind the nape of your neck and pulling your face closer, claiming your mouth with his teeth and imploring tongue. And you came for him once more, moaning into his mouth. He then reached his climax right after with a groan.

Breathing heavily, you slumped in the tub, he was holding you close, kissing your chin then beneath your ear. You listened to the peaceful sound of water echoing off the damp walls until your breathing calmed. Without pulling out, he wrapped his arms around you and you rested your head on his shoulder. Once your both breathing and racing hearts had calmed, he stood up and led you out of the tub too.

On the following day, the capital of Rome was on the brink of witnessing one of the most momentous days in its history. The Council's decision, Geta's proclaiming absolute emperorship to the entire populace, was followed by the announcement of the execution of the traitor Macrinus and his supporters in the Colosseum.  As the sun reached its zenith, people were making their way towards the colossal structure, engaged in quiet conversation.

The emperor's carriage soon arrived near the Colosseum, where the people greeted Geta with great enthusiasm. You and Marcus were in the other carriage, which you got out of together and waved to the people who were cheering your name. The trumpets were blown, and as you walked towards the Imperial tribune, the announcer called out Geta's name. Everyone stood up and cheered him enthusiastically.

“Caesar! Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!”

Geta raised his hands and gave them the salute, then turned to you and held out his hand. And then they announced your name. You took Geta's hand and stood next to him.

"Princess Aurelia!"

The crowd clapped and cheered even more enthusiastically. You placed your right hand on your chest and saluted the crowd. It was then time for Marcus's name to be announced.

“General Marcus Justus Acacius!”

The crowd roared his name over and over.

“Acacius! Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!”

Marcus gave them a smile and a salute in return. Caracalla's seat has been removed and two seats have been added on either side of the emperor, as per his orders. At Geta's gesture, you took the seat next to him, and Marcus sat next to you.

And the trumpets sounded again. The announcer cut them off and carried on:

"For his treachery against the life of the Emperor and the Roman Empire, Marcus Opellius Macrinus is declared an enemy of the people. He has been stripped of his membership of the Senate and all those who aided and abetted him will bring to the arena in chains today, to face judgement, your judgement, people of Rome!"

When the iron gate sprung open, Macrinus and his supporters were brought into the middle of the arena in chains. The crowd booed them.

"Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!"

The Announcer called the crowd to silence, listed his crimes one by one, which Macrinus replied with a smug smile.

Crowded roared. “Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

Geta stood up and went over to the balustrade. But then he glanced back at you and beckoned you over. You looked at Marcus and stood up, grabbing his hand and pulling him along with you. He didn’t resist and followed you.

"What do you think, sister? Mercy?"

All three of you were looking at Macrinus. Julia, who was watching you from behind, seemed angry with Geta for not calling her mother to his side. She crossed her arms and made a face.

Looking at Macrinus from a distance, you shook your head. "No mercy." You said firmly.

Geta smiled and looked at Marcus. "Acacius?"

"Having mercy on the traitor is a betrayal to the innocent!" Said Marcus without taking his eyes off Macrinus. You smiled and held his hand, he was so right.

Geta put his arms up. "The gods have spoken!" And then he lowered both hands down. The executioner nodded and separated Macrinus's head from his body in a single stroke.

The crowd cheered. It was the first time you'd ever felt so relieved that a man was dead. Marcus let out a deep sigh, feeling the same way. When it was the turn of the other traitors, they shared Macrinus' fate too. Marcus leaned towards Geta. "Speak to your people, Your Majesty, show that you are a true emperor. They need it."

Geta looked at him, then nodded. He took a deep breath.

"The people of Rome! I promise you that from now on I will restore Rome to its rightful glory! During my reign, there will no longer be any Romans who are hungry or poor. I pledge that no Roman rights will be infringed upon, and that all will enjoy equal conditions. I promise you, as your emperor, that I will strive to make Rome the greatest empire in the world!"

You and Marcus looked at each other as the crowd continued to cheer and applaud, their enthusiasm growing. This was precisely what you had hoped to hear. It seemed that the people were also pleased. You admired Geta's personal development and believed with all your heart that he would do what he promised.

Now it was time. It was time for you and your husband to return to your home in peace.

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