#blue lion threads

[matoitech]

off model cvs checkout blue plush and rare collectors item bootleg elle plush

[tidesbled]

the  pout  that  dominates  his  countenance  is  more  playful  than  it  is  anything  else.  lance  is  up  -  stretching  onto  his  toes  as  he  presses  both  of  his  palms  flat  against  his  beautiful  girl’s  maw.  “don’t  give  me  that  look.”  lance  pleads  ;  blinking  heavily  before  breaking  stance. “i  really  need  to  think  about  what  i  say  before  i  actually  say  it,  huh.”  he  muses.  huffs  &  then  promptly  lets  his  head  drop  forward.  defeated.  “do  you  think  i  made  him  mad?”  a  pause  -  a  consideration.  “well,  madder?” 

            𝐓𝐇𝐄     𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒     𝐎𝐅     𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐓��𝐎𝐍     𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃     𝐇𝐄𝐑     𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃     𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍     𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆     𝐇𝐄𝐑     𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑'𝐒     𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐒     𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍.     There     wasn't     a     need     for     her     to     look     to     know     it     was     her     paladin.     An     UNSPOKEN     agreement,     the     lioness     would     lend     her     paladin     a     listening     ear     for     his     troubles.     Whatever     her     paladin     needed,     she     would     provide.     Amused,     she     gently     probed     her     paladin's     mind     with     the     lure     of     soothing     purrs.     Though     in     AGREEANCE     -     she     aimed     to     comfort     him.

[fellstcr]

⚔️ // she sang an old hymn inside of hallowed halls. her voice , a soft soprano that echoes throughout the temple to any keen listener who happens to pass by.

open !

[m00nkissedlover]

・｡Naps 🍂

You've ordered: a cinnamon apple tart! enjoy!

"Cause all I wanna do is lie with you~"

Leona Kingscholar x reader | word count: 1,150 words

Summary: during preparations for halloween, you and leona share a rather comfy moment~ 🍂

Warnings: none!

Note: kinda rushed, not really proofread. also, i love leona sm, OMG-

Cheerful banter, excited voices, and the scents of pumpkin, cinnamon, and apples filled the air of Night Raven College. Students and faculty alike were working hard in preparation for everyone's favorite holiday: Halloween.

Each dorm, being led and directed by their dorm leaders, was hard at work, decorating for the spooky and fun filled holiday that was only days away.

You were working with Grim to hang up some pumpkin and skull shaped garlands, holding a few nails between your teeth as you hammered them into the wall. "These look too boring!" the cat-like creature complained, flicking at one of the paper skulls with his paw.

"Well what do you recommend we do? This was all they had in the storage closet..." you sighed, rolling your eyes at your furry companion's complaints. He thought for a moment before perking up, a mischievous little grin on his face.

"I think it'll look better all lit up!" he exclaimed, taking a deep breath. Before you could stop him, Grim had already let out a breath of fire, the blue flames licking the paper and thread of the garlands.

"Grim, what did you do?!" you yelled, rushing to fan out the flames before they burned your dorm to the ground.

"What? I thought it'd look cool..." grim said, realizing his mistake. You sighed, gently petting his head after you finished putting out the small fire.

"It's alright, you didn't know this would happen." you mumbled, looking at the now charred garland at your feet. "I'll go ask around the other dorms and see if they have extra garlands."

You said, grabbing your jacket as you made your way out the door. "Bring back some tuna!" Grim yelled after you, your response being a thumbs up.

You'd tried most of the dorms, realizing they were either done decorating or still in the process. When you went to Heartslabyul, Deuce and Ace were on their way out, Riddle yelling something along the lines of "Get the right decorations or it's off with your heads!"

"What happened?" you asked as the two walked with their heads hanging in shame.

"Someone took the wrong box of decorations. These actually belong to Savanaclaw dorm." Deuce said, earning himself a poke in the side from Ace.

"Okay, but in my defense, the closet was pretty dark!" he protested, a soft laugh pushing past your lips.

"Looks like they have extra garlands. Mine burned down cause Grim was trying to show off again." you explained, stepping onto the grounds of the Savanaclaw dorms.

"Are you sure that's why you're here?" Ace asked, a knowing grin on his face. You playfully shoved him as Deuce went up to knock on the door. The door swung open and Ruggie stood there, a box full of Heartslabyul decorations in hand.

"Oh, I was just about to come return these." he laughed, shoving the box into Ace's arms.

Deuce gave him the correct box and thanked Ruggie, getting ready to leave before he was tugged to the side by Ace. You raised an eyebrow as you saw the two whispering and glancing at you a few times.

You weren't sure exactly how you got into this situation, but you and Ace were currently helping Ruggie and Jack put up fake cobwebs in the corners of the room. Deuce had volunteered to go take the decorations back to Ramshackle and Heartslabyul.

"Where's Mr. King of the Jungle? Shouldn't he be helping too?" you asked, glancing around for the familiar lion.

"He's taking his "power nap." Says he can't help out if he's sleepy." Ruggie said, rolling his eyes.

"Ugh, Ruggie, we're out of thumbtacks." Ace said, hopping off of the ladder. "Ummm, I think Leona has some in his room." Jack replied, tying off the string of another garland.

"Y/n, could you get them?" Ace asked, that stupid grin on his face again. "Why can't you-"

"Ace, could you come hold this for a second?" Ruggie yelled, obviously in on it and giving Ace the perfect excuse.

"Duty calls!" he smirked, making you scoff and curse at him under your breath.

You softly knocked on the door of Leona's room, listening for a sign to enter. "He's probably asleep..." you thought, slowly opening the door and taking a peek inside.

You were correct: there in a plush, king sized bed, slept Leona Kingscholar himself, still in his uniform minus the jacket. You slowly stepped inside the room, walking over to his desk area and snagging the box of thumbtacks, making your way back to the door. You stopped halfway, glancing over at leona's sleeping form.

He looked so peaceful, as if he didn't have a care in the world. He probably didn't. Absentmindedly, you reached your hand out and gently brushed some of his hair from his eyes, seeing them slowly start to flutter open.

You froze as his emerald green eyes seemed to widen a little at seeing you, a sleepy grumble leaving his lips, his tail flicking behind him. "Herbivore? What are you doing here?"

"Sorry to wake you. Ruggie said he needed help with the Halloween decorations, so Ace and I decided to stay." you couldn't help but laugh a little, taking in his half asleep state as he sat up with a groan.

"Ace needed some thumbtacks for putting up the cobwebs." you said, holding up the box.

"You're really going along with all of this stuff?"

"What, you mean decorating? It's much more fun that way! Gets everyone into the Halloween spirit!" Leona rolled his eyes, playfully flicking you in the forehead.

"Of course you'd say that. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll get back to my nap." he said, getting ready to get back into his bed. "At least come and help-!"

You let out a startled yell as you were pulled down into the plush blankets of Leona's bed. "Leona, what are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious? Sleeping. You can leave if you want. But if you decide to stay, I'd appreciate it if you stayed quiet." he yawned, his tail swishing a bit. You felt your heart skip a beat, your eyes glancing up to meet Leona's.

He wordlessly pulled you closer, resting his chin on your head, already knowing you had no intentions of pulling away.

It felt nice, so nice to be held by the otherwise grumpy lion. He smelled like citrus and something musky. His embrace felt like a protective bubble, keeping you safe and secure. You felt your breathing get a bit slower as eyelids fluttered closed, your arms wrapping around Leona's middle. No words had to be exchanged. It was already obvious how you felt about each other.

Bonus: Ace and Ruggie walked in on you two and of course Ace took pictures...and of course you chased him down the hall the next day when he sent them to you. 🍂

© m00nkissedlover, 2024

[similia-similibus-solvuntur]

Okay, nerd alert. This is a more detailed thread about Klára Peslarová´s gear for iihf wwc 2025. Because it´s fire, it´s cool, and the longer I was looking at it, the more details I found. So, without further ado: The main motive is a lion and two eagles. They, of course, come from the Coat of arms of the Czech Republic.

The double tailed lion symbolises Bohemia (west part of the Czech republic, taking approx 2/4 of the country). The gold-crowned, white-red-checkered eagle symbolises Moravia (south east part of CZ) and the black eagle with silver crescent with a cross in the middle on its chest symbolises Silesia (north east part of CZ). Now the color scheme. Why only blue and white? Why no red? Well it might be a reference to a traditional textile print called Modrotisk.

Modrotisk (blue + print) was often used in czech traditional clothes:

Now the gear. All three forementioned symbols can be found on the pads:

Moravian eagle is on the glove:

And Silesian eagle is on the blocker:

Now the mask. The mask that may be the best mask that ever masked. You´ll see. Again the coat of arms - on one side, there is double tailed lion. on the other side there is an eagle - half Moravian, half Salesian.

But there is more. The national tree of the Czech republic is Tilia cordata. A linden with heart-shaped leaves.

The design of those leaves were inspired by Czech presidential flag.

Pravda vítězí - The truth prevails

In the front of the mask, there is a symbol of a charity set up by a Czech goalie Šimon Hrubec called Saves help,

More detailes - horseshoes and a rose. Horseshoes are a symbol of good luck and that rose is a symbol of the city of Ostrava, Klára´s hometown.

Now the inscription. "Jsme Češi! Nikdy se nevzdáme, slyšíte? Nikdy!" This line refers to a possibly most heroic deed in the czech history - the assassination of a high-ranking NAZI officer Reinhard Heydrich. Czech&Slovak paratroopers, who carried out the assassination, were found after three weeks of hiding, and surrounded by 800 NAZI soldiers in a church crypt. Seven against eight hundred.

Their last words?

"We are Czechs. We are never gonna give up, you hear? Never!"

Sources: Czech national team facebook, wikipaedia and to some extent, myself

[apiswitchcraft]

altars for greek heroes

ACHILLES: hero of the Trojan war, son of nereid Thetis

Colors: gold/bronze, red for Trojan War. blue, white for his mother Thetis

Offerings: yarrow, gold/silver, shells, gull feathers, olive, laurel, gemstones

Crystals: aquamarine, sodalite, jaspers (red, yellow, ocean especially)

*to honor Achilles you must also honor Patroclus*

PATROCLUS: hero of the Trojan war, son of Argonaut Menoetius

Colors: gold/bronze, red for war. purple for royal birth

Offerings: incense/fire, oil, olive, laurel, gemstones, gold/silver

Crystals: agates (moss, tree especially), amethyst, lepidolite, rose quartz, citrine

ADONIS: lover of Aphrodite, became god of rebirth and beauty

Colors: pink, purple, red for beauty and association with Aphrodite

Offerings: fast growing plants (lettuce, fennel, barley, wheat), anemone and other flowers, dead plants, cake, honey

Crystals: flower agate, rose quartz, amethyst, rutilated quartz, jaspers (specifically rainforest or other green ones)

ARIADNE: helped Theseus to defeat the Minotaur, later married Dionysus and became goddess of labyrinths

Colors: gold for noble birth. purple for association with Dionysus

Offerings: grapes, puzzle toys, spools of thread or fabric art, wine, herbal tea, saffron

Crystals: grape agate, celestite, star jasper, pyrite, amethyst, scolectite, selenite

ASCLEPIUS: god of healing, son of Apollo

Colors: yellow, white for association with Apollo. red, pink, orange for healing

Offerings: snake skin, clay/bronze humanoid figurines, cypress, pine, olive trees, medicinal herbs

Crystals: quartz, rhodonite, amethyst, fluorite, selenite, citrine

ATALANTA: one of the Argonauts, devotee of Artemis, killed the Calydonian boar

Colors: brown, green for the hunt. white, blue, grey for association with Artemis

Offerings: pork, boar hide, apples, laurel, forgeables, lion/bear imagery

Crystals: jaspers, moss/tree agate, petrified wood, amethyst, rose quartz, selenite

CASTOR AND POLLUX: Pollux was a son of Zeus who shared his immortality Castor, they were turned into the Gemini constellation, saviors of seafarers

Colors: purple for noble birth. white and grey for association with zeus. black for the night sky

Offerings: shells, laurel, olive, meat, wine, two things conjoined (like two cherries or two grapes on a vine)

Crystals: star and ocean jaspers, sodalite, aquamarine, obsidian, hematite

HERAKLES: went mad and killed his wife and kids, did 12 labors as penance, god of strength and heroes

Colors: red, gold for strength and heroes

Offerings: hellebore, olive, laurel, meat, alcohol, yarrow

Crystals: bloodstone, carnelian, garnet, red jasper, smokey quartz, pyrite

HYACINTHUS: Spartan prince and lover of Apollo, became god of vegetation

Colors: pink, yellow, green for vegetation. yellow/gold for association with apollo

Offerings: iris (they were called hyacinths by the Greeks) and other flowers, grain, yarrow, clove

Crystals: tree/moss/flower agate, jaspers (especially bumblebee), citrine, carnelian, pyrite, honey calcite, amber

ODYSSEUS: clever hero of Homer's "The Odyssey," favored by Athena

Colors: gold, purple for royal status. grey, white for wisdom

Offerings: owl feathers, shells, boat imagery, poetry/speeches, laurel, olive, cypress

Crystals: jaspers, obsidian, quartz, aquamarine, turquoise, sodalite, bloodstone

ORION: lover of Artemis, was turned into a constellation after death. Sirius is his dog and Scorpius the scorpion that slayed him

Colors: black, white for night. brown, green for the hunt

Offerings: forageables, apples, hides/leather, mugwort, cypress, moon shaped items

Crystals: star jasper, bloodstone, selenite, celestite, howlite

ORPHEUS: son of Apollo, famed musician and poet of the Argonauts, travelled to Haides to try to save his wife Eurydice

Colors: yellow, gold, white for Apollo. black for the Underworld

Offerings: music (especially lyre), poetry, hymns, honey, laurel, wine, meats

Crystals: aventurine, obsidian, black tourmaline, smokey quartz, selenite, yellow jasper, honey calcite

PERSEUS: son of Zeus, slayer of Medusa, has a constellation

Colors: gold and red for hero status. white, grey, blue for association with Zeus

Offerings: meat, laurel, snake shed, alcohol, fruit, honey, milk (to honor his mother Danae)

Crystals: jaspers (red, star especially), bloodstone, serpentine, quartz, obsidian

THESEUS: slayer of the Minotaur, united Attica, completed six trials for the entrances to the Underworld that he passed on the way to Athens

Colors: blues for ocean, being a son of Poseidon (in some stories)

Offerings: ship imagery, meat, olive, yarrow, gold

Crystals: pyrite, sodalite, lapis lazuli, coral, blue aventurine, aquamarine

[causeimhappinesss]

Rome's Devotion (part 10)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 5,2k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

-

The corridors feel endless as they stretch into dimly lit passages lined with towering marble columns. I walk in silence, my sandals brushing against the cool stone floor, my heartbeat a steady drum in my ears. Caracalla strides ahead, his shoulders squared, his movements unhurried. He hasn’t spoken since we left the garden. He doesn’t need to. The mere presence of him commands attention, his silence heavier than words.

We pass several guards who bow their heads as we move past them. The scent of burning oil and polished bronze lingers in the air, mixing with something faintly sweet, perhaps myrrh or the remnants of spiced wine. Finally, we stop before a set of intricately carved wooden doors. A guard steps aside and pushes them open. I don’t know what I expect, but the moment I step inside, I draw in a breath.

The room before me is nothing short of opulent. Golden light spills from bronze oil lamps set high against the walls, casting warm shadows that dance across deep blue tapestries embroidered with silver thread. Marble columns support the domed ceiling, where a fresco of hunting scenes stretches above us with lions brought to their knees by spears, wild boars caught mid-charge, the hunters’ expressions fierce with triumph. Beneath it all, silk cushions in shades of crimson and gold lie scattered atop low couches, their tassels brushing the polished floor.

But it is not the grandeur that holds my attention. It is the small creature perched on a carved wooden stand near the far end of the chamber.

Dondus.

The little monkey watches us with bright, intelligent eyes. Her tiny hands clutch the edge of the stand, her tail curling around its base. A servant kneels beside her, offering a small bowl of fruit, but the moment she catches sight of Caracalla, she lets out a chattering sound and scrambles upright. The servant quickly steps aside, bowing deeply before retreating toward the shadows.

Caracalla moves forward without hesitation. The soft clink of a chain reaches my ears as he retrieves it from the stand, but Dondus hardly notices. She climbs onto his shoulder with practiced ease, her small fingers tangling in the fabric of his tunic. He lifts a hand and strokes the top of her head, his fingers threading through the soft brown fur.

“She missed you…” I whisper, stepping closer.

Caracalla doesn’t immediately answer. He pulls a pomegranate from a nearby bowl and breaks it open with his hands, offering a seed-filled half to Dondus. She chatters again before snatching a handful of the red fruit and pressing it to her mouth, her eyes darting between him and me.

“She should. I raised her since she was a baby. She’s my sweet girl.” he finally says, his voice quieter than before.

The fondness in his tone surprises me. He strokes the monkey’s back absentmindedly, his fingers slow and deliberate. Then, I glance around the room again.

“I can see that. She lives better than most people in Rome.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“And yet, she throws figs at the servants when she’s displeased.”

A small laugh escapes me as I imagine the scene, the little tantrums.

“She has a strong will, then.”

“She does.”

He shifts his gaze toward me, his expression unreadable.

“You do, too.”

Since, I don’t know how to respond to that, I look back at Dondus instead.

“May I?” I ask, gesturing toward the fruit bowl beside him.

He nods. I reach for a fig, its skin soft and slightly wrinkled beneath my fingertips. Holding it out, I wait. Dondus tilts her head, hesitating only a moment before plucking it from my grasp. She eats more slowly this time, her small hands gripping the fruit carefully.

“She likes you.” Caracalla observes.

“She is remarkable.”

He watches me, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my chest tighten. Something about it feels… different. Less demanding, less certain. As if he is trying to understand something about me that he cannot quite grasp. Well, they’re also things I cannot quite grasp when it comes to him. He’s lovely with his pet, but cruel with humans. He can act a kid, and the next minute, he’s threatening to spill blood.

“She was a gift. A Numidian trader brought her to Rome when I was seventeen. My father let me keep her, though Geta was furious.” He reveals after a moment, looking back at Dondus.

I glance at him, intrigued.

“Why?”

“He wanted a dog. Something to train for the hunt. He said a monkey was useless.” His smirk returns. “But she is far more intelligent than any beast he could have chosen.”

Dondus chitters again, as if in agreement. I laugh softly, offering her another piece of fruit. This time, she takes it with more care, her tiny fingers brushing against mine.

Caracalla’s voice lowers.

“She is the only creature here without deceit in her heart.”

The words settle between us like a heavy stone. I shift, unsure of what to say. There is a quiet sadness in him that I haven’t noticed before, buried beneath layers of arrogance and fire. Instead of answering, I reach up and let monkey curl her fingers around mine. The warmth of her touch is oddly comforting. For the first time since that night, something inside me eases.

Caracalla walks ahead, outside the room, his steps steady, his shoulders squared with that effortless authority he carries. Dondus clings to his tunic, her tail curling around his arm as she nibbles on here food. I walk beside him, more aware than ever of the imperial guards following at a careful distance. Their presence is constant, a silent reminder that no moment in this palace is truly private. The halls stretch wide around us, adorned with frescoes of past triumphs: battles won, legions marching, emperors standing over the broken bodies of their enemies. Gold leaf catches the torchlight, shimmering along the edges of the painted laurels and the hilts of the soldiers’ swords. The scent of burning oil and crushed rose petals lingers in the air, a mixture of power and indulgence. Caracalla says little as we walk. His fingers absently stroke Dondus’s back, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. For this reason, I don’t press him. The weight of rule never leaves him, even in these rare, quiet moments.

Then, ahead of us, a group of men turns a corner. At the center of them stands a man I don’t recognize. His tunic is of deep blue, embroidered with golden thread, the fabric rich enough to rival even that of the emperor’s own garments. His dark eyes flicker toward us the moment he notices our approach, and a smile stretches across his lips, a smile that doesn’t reach his wrinkled eyes.

Caracalla halts, and so do I. The guards shift behind us, always alert. The man steps forward, inclining his head in a respectful nod.

“Caesar…” he says, his voice smooth, his Latin spoken with a crisp precision. His gaze shifts briefly to me, assessing but careful. “And the lady. A pleasure, truly.”

Caracalla lifts his chin.

“Macrinus.”

Macrinus.

The name settles uneasily in my mind. I have heard of him, though only in passing. A man of Numidian origin, ambitious, clever, too clever, perhaps. His rise through the ranks has been swift. Some whisper he is a man to watch, though whether that is a warning or a compliment depends on who is speaking. Macrinus clasps his hands before him, his expression a mask of admiration.

“How fortunate I am to encounter you both on this fine afternoon. The gods must favor me.”

Caracalla scoffs. “The gods have little to do with it. What do you want?”

Macrinus tilts his head, his smile unwavering.

“Only to offer my deepest respect, to you and to your charming companion.” His gaze lingers on me just a moment too long. “A woman of rare grace.”

A compliment, but one that feels rehearsed, as though he has delivered similar words to countless others. I nod in return, neither warm nor cold. Caracalla’s patience is thin, but something shifts in his blue eyes, probably pride.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

Macrinus places a hand over his chest, as if wounded by the lack of pleasantries.

“Forgive me, my Emperor. I had hoped for a moment of private discourse. Matters of state, as always.”

I take this as my cue. Without hesitation, I step back, lowering my gaze slightly. Women are never involved in politics, that’s why there’s no female Senators, and they are barely concerned when it comes to business.

“If you will excuse me…” I murmur.

Of course, Caracalla doesn’t stop me. He gives a brief nod, already turning his full attention to Macrinus. One of the guards steps forward to escort me. As I turn away, I catch one last glimpse of Macrinus. His smile remains, but his eyes are sharp, calculating.

Something about him unsettles me.

But I say nothing.

Unfortunately, it’s not my place.

*

A sharp knock disrupts the peacefulness of my bedchamber. The flickering light from the oil lamp trembles against the polished marble floor, and I set aside the delicate embroidery I had been pretending to work on. My fingers, slightly stiff from the effort of holding the needle, unclench. I don’t need to be told who stands outside. A guard steps through the doorway, his black-plated armor catching the light, unlike his purple tunics. His expression remains impassive, as always.

“The Emperors request your presence for the evening meal.”

Not an invitation. A summons.

I nod, rising from my seat. My legs feel oddly unsteady as I smooth the folds of my stola.

“Of course.”

He inclines his head before disappearing down the corridor, leaving me alone for only a moment before Claudia and several other women slip into the room. Their movements are swift, efficient, yet never rushed. They already know why they are here.

“Another gift. Our Emperors love to spoil you.” Claudia murmurs as she unrolls a length of fabric over her arm. Deep indigo silk shimmers beneath the lamplight, embroidered with golden thread that catches in the glow. The fabric looks impossibly soft, finer than anything I have ever owned. She holds it up, examining it before meeting my gaze.

“They want you to be seen.”

I say nothing as they begin their work. Resistance would be futile. The silk glides over my skin like water as they dress me, adjusting the fabric so that it falls just so, emphasizing my figure without betraying the careful modesty expected of a woman in my position. The clasps at my collarbone are solid gold, shaped like laurel leaves, securing the stola in place.

Claudia moves behind me, her hands deft as she lifts sections of my hair, twisting and coiling them into an intricate arrangement. She pulls just hard enough to remind me that I am being shaped into something, someone, meant to please the eyes of Rome’s most powerful men. Another servant dusts my eyelids with crushed minerals, their touch featherlight. The faint scent of myrrh lingers in the air, weaving itself into the fabric of the moment. When they are finished, Claudia steps back, tilting her head as she studies me.

“Now you look as though you belong.”

The words sit heavy in the space between us. A compliment. A warning. Perhaps both.

Before I can respond, the guard returns. Without a word, he gestures for me to follow. I step into the corridor, my sandals whispering against the marble. The torches lining the walls flicker, their glow casting long, uncertain shadows. The scent of roasted meat and honeyed wine drifts toward us, growing stronger with each step. The dining room is smaller than the grand feasting halls of the palace, but no less opulent. A round table dominates the center of the room, draped in fine linen, adorned with golden plates and goblets. Slaves move quietly, setting the last of the dishes in place while tasters sample each offering with solemn duty. Caracalla and Geta stand as I enter.

“You honor us with your presence, Aurelia.” Geta says smoothly, a polite smile curving his lips. His tone is light, practiced, yet distant.

Aurelia… I almost forgot about that.

I incline my head.

“The honor is mine, Caesar.”

Caracalla watches me with an unreadable expression. His eyes, sharp and assessing, sweep over me as if he is measuring something beyond what I wear. He says nothing, but his lips curl at the edges, as though pleased. Geta gestures toward the table.

“Sit with us.”

I obey, lowering myself onto the cushioned seat between them. Only a woman of great value could sit this close to them, such as Lady Lucilla, the daughter of Marcus Aurelius. The scent of spiced wine and roasted fowl fills the chamber, rich and heavy. A servant fills my goblet with dark red liquid, then steps back, silent as a shadow. Geta takes a sip of his wine, then leans back, watching me.

“Rome will soon celebrate General Acacius’ victory in Numidia.”

His tone is conversational, but I know better than to mistake it for idle talk.

“The games will be grander than ever.”

I set my goblet down carefully, the metal cool beneath my fingertips.

“A great conquest.” I say, letting just the right amount of admiration slip into my voice. “The people will rejoice in your triumphs.”

He smiles, obviously pleased by my answer, something he expected. I would never criticize their war choices, I’m not qualified for this and I prefer my head on my shoulder than to have it rolling on the ground.

“Indeed. Rome grows stronger with each victory!” He comments with proud tone.

Caracalla’s fingers drum against the table, slow and deliberate.

“And the people will be entertained.” he says, voice lighter than I expect. “The best gladiators will fight in the arena. The blood will flow freely.”

That man loves chaos and death…

His eyes glint with something close to excitement, and I force myself to hold his gaze, though my stomach tightens at his words. Geta watches me closely, squinting his eyes darkened with makeup.

“You do not seem as thrilled as you sound.”

Even if he can read into my expression, I don’t let my expression falter. A test. A trap, perhaps.

 “I understand why the games are loved. There is glory in the struggle, strength in survival.” I pause, allowing a moment to pass before adding, “But I find little joy in watching men die.”

Caracalla laughs, low and amused.

“Soft-hearted.”

“Perhaps.”

His amusement doesn’t wane as he giggles.

“You should come. You have to come. Sit close enough to feel the sand shift beneath your feet, to hear the blades clash.”

I reach for a fig from the tray before me, rolling it between my fingers before bringing it to my lips. The sweetness spreads across my tongue, but the unease in my chest does not lessen.

Caracalla leans in slightly, his voice lower, meant only for me.

“You might change your mind and come willingly…”

I meet his gaze, unflinching.

Or I might not.

A beat of silence lingers between us, stretching into something almost tangible. Then, slowly, he grins. He lifts his goblet in a silent toast. I raise mine in response, but when the wine touches my lips, it tastes heavier than before.

The final bites of the meal are taken with slow enjoyment, the richness of the flavors still lingering on my tongue as I lean back in my chair. The meal has been exquisite, beyond anything I’ve ever tasted. The roasted quail, the honeyed fruits, the wine that dances on my palate, all of it feels like a world away from the small, dimly lit rooms I once knew. I try not to let the enormity of it overwhelm me, but the grandeur of the evening, the delicate touches in every dish, has a way of wrapping itself around my thoughts. Caracalla shifts in his seat, his eyes never leaving the remnants of his plate. His fingers brush against his goblet as he takes another drink, his thoughts seemingly far away.

“I’ll admit,” Caracalla begins with authority, “I do enjoy the games. Watching men fight for their lives… it’s exhilarating.”

He pauses, the words hanging in the air for a moment before he continues, his gaze sweeping over the table.

“The crowds go wild. It’s power, plain and simple.”

Geta, ever the more composed of the two, shifts in his seat, the corners of his mouth curling upward into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

“Power and spectacle. Rome is nothing without both.”

I beg to differ…

I catch the hint of something darker in his tone, but I say nothing. I merely nod, my fingers tracing the edge of my plate as I listen. Geta’s gaze meets mine, and I feel a flicker of discomfort.

“You will come with us. Gladiators will certainly make for an interesting spectacle.”

The question makes my stomach twist slightly. The thought of bloodshed, of men killing one another for sport, stirs a deep unease within me. Alas, I refuse to disappoint them ; I offer a sweet smile.

“They’ll be… magnificent, I’m sure.” I comment carefully, my voice steady, though my mind races to find the right words. “The people will be thrilled. It’s an honor to be in the presence of such grandeur.”

Caracalla’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, though there’s a glint of something dangerous beneath the surface. “

Yes, they should be thrilled. The games will be a reminder of Rome’s strength. We’ll show them what it means to defy the might of this empire.

I take a breath, trying to quell the unease rising within me.

“It must be thrilling to be a part of something so powerful. To lead an empire that controls so much.”

I meet Caracalla’s gaze as I speak, but it’s Geta who responds, his tone unexpectedly gentle.

“It is thrilling, but there is more at play than the battles we fight. We must show our people that their rulers are not just warriors, but leaders who know how to shape the future of the empire.”

His words catch me off guard. I hadn’t expected this shift in the conversation. For a moment, I consider asking more, about their plans, about their vision, but I hold back, unsure of how much I’m allowed to probe. Instead, I give a simple and respectful nod.

“I can only imagine the burden of such responsibility. The empire must rely on you in ways no one else could understand.”

Caracalla’s grin widens, but it’s not the same as before. It’s colder, more distant.

“It’s a burden we bear gladly. We are Romans and the Gods chose us. It is our destiny.”

The conversation shifts again, the tension palpable in the air. Geta speaks again, his voice carrying a hint of playfulness, as if to ease the weight of the moment.

“Well, after the games, we’ll need something to occupy our time. I’ve been thinking we could play Ludus Latrunculi.”

I blink, momentarily confused. I know the game, of course, most educated Roman does. However, I’ve never been particularly skilled at it, and the few times I’ve tried, I’ve ended up frustrated, unable to grasp the rules or the strategy behind it.

“I… I’m not sure I’m very good at it. I’ve never really played much before.” I admit, my voice hesitant.

Geta laughs lightly, the sound warm but with a hint of challenge.

“It’s simple once you get the hang of it. Besides, it’s always fun to have a little competition.”

I hesitate again, glancing toward Caracalla. He’s watching the two of us with interest, leaning forward slightly in his chair as though this game is of great importance to him.

“You’ll do fine.” Caracalla says, his tone easy and reassuring, not even making fun of me.

Not long after diner, the pieces are set on the table in front of me, the board meticulously arranged. My fingers hover above the small pieces, unsure of my next move. I glance at Caracalla, who is watching me closely, and feel the weight of his gaze settle over me.

“Move your piece there. You’ll block him.” he whispers in my ear, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. His warm breath makes me shiver. My heart hammers in my chest.

What’s wrong with me…?

I follow his suggestion, trying to mask the uncertainty in my mind. Geta watches me carefully, and I can’t quite place the look in his eyes. It’s not judgment, but something else. Curiosity, perhaps.

“Well done.” Caracalla murmurs. “You’re learning fast.”

I feel a small rush of pride at his words, though I know I still have a long way to go. The game keep going with the pieces moving across the board as the tension between us eases ever so slightly. It’s not a game I particularly enjoy, but the moment feels strangely lighter. With Caracalla’s subtle guidance and Geta’s occasional remarks, I find myself more relaxed than I expected.

“Don’t make it too easy for her. She needs to learn to think for herself.” Geta advices Caracalla, though his tone is teasing.

Caracalla chuckles, but there’s a hint of pride in his laugh.

“I’m sure she’ll learn quickly enough.”

I make another move, my fingers shaking slightly as I place a piece on the board. Geta’s eyes narrow, studying my move carefully. It’s a small victory, but it feels like more than that. A quiet triumph that makes me feel a little less like an outsider, a little more like I belong in this strange, complicated world they’ve created.

*

The air feels cool against my skin as I step out of the dining hall, my body heavy from the meal. The pleasure of the evening lingers on my tongue, but I’m grateful for the quiet as I’m escorted back to my room. The guard, silent as ever, follows closely behind, while Claudia moves ahead to open the door. Her presence is a reminder that my moments of solitude are few, yet I welcome the brief respite. Once inside, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The room is simple, but the softness of the bed and the stillness of the air offer comfort. My thoughts drift toward the bath, the warmth of the water calling me as if it has the power to wash away the tension of the evening.

Soon, Claudia helps me with taking clothes and we walk in the long corridors to reach the baths. Claudia steps forward, her eyes gleaming with the same practiced care that I’ve come to know in the women who serve here.

“Shall I assist you with your bath?” she asks.

I shake my head, offering her a small smile.

“No, thank you, Claudia. I wish to be alone for this.”

 She nods, not a hint of surprise on her face, and with a glance at the guard, she motions toward the door. They both step out, leaving me with only the silence of the room and the promise of the baths.

Quickly, I undress slowly at apodyterium and leaves my night clothes there, since there’s nobody this late in the night. The cool air of the room brushes against my skin as I walk toward the bathing chamber. The sound of running water reaches my ears before I even enter, and the heat from the steam greets me like an embrace. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the anticipation of the warmth that awaits.

I start with the tepidarium for its lukewarm temperature, before I move to another pond, the caldarium for its warm temperatures. The water is just the right temperature, swirling with steam and the faint scent of oils. As I lower myself into the bath, a satisfied sigh escapes my lips, the tension in my muscles beginning to melt away. I close my eyes and let the warmth envelop me, the weight of the day slowly easing from my mind. The soft splash of water as I move, the peaceful silence; this is all I need.

For a moment, I allow myself to simply be… me. The sound of the water is calming, and I lose myself in it, letting it pull me into a dreamlike state. My mind drifts back to a simpler time, to the days when everything felt less complicated. When I open my eyes again, I find the dim light of the bathhouse stretching across the stone floor, casting long shadows. It is then that I hear the voice, low, amused, and unmistakably familiar:

“I didn’t expect to see you here at this hour.”

I freeze, my heart lurching in my chest. I press myself against the edge of the bath, one hand instinctively crossing over my womanhood, while my free arm hides my breasts, to shield my nudity. My breath catches in my throat as I try to compose myself, but it’s too late. I hear the soft chuckle that follows.

“Don’t be so startled. I’m not here to annoy you” Geta’s voice says, still teasing, but with a gentleness that calms my nerves, if only slightly.

I blink, unable to form a proper response as he approaches. He is dressed in a simple bathrobe, his hair still slightly damp from his own bath, the faintest trace of amusement playing across his features. He crouches down by the edge of the pond, leaning in close enough that I can feel the heat of his presence.

His eyes are warm, studying me in a way that both comforts and unnerves me. He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek, the touch unexpectedly tender. “

“You don’t need to hide from me.” he says softly.

I can feel the heat rising in my face, my pulse quickening.

“I-I wasn’t…” My words falter, and I quickly look away, feeling the shame of being caught so off guard. “I should leave,” I stammer, my fingers curling against the stone edge of the bath.

His expression shifts, the playful edge fading as he gazes at me with a quiet intensity.

“No. You’re not leaving.” he says firmly.

His tone is soft, but there’s an unmistakable authority in it. His gaze holds mine, a silent command behind his words. I freeze for a moment, unsure of how to react. I’ve never been in this position before, where his presence feels as much an order as an invitation.

“Don’t panic.” he adds, his voice soothing yet unyielding. “I will not do anything that would displease you. I only wish to speak with you.”

I nod, though the uncertainty lingers in my chest, tightening the pit of my stomach. His words seem genuine enough, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being drawn into something larger than I understand. His fingers remain near my face, his touch warm and steady as though to reassure me. His smile turns out to be soft, almost imperceptible.

“It’s alright… I promise you, I won’t make you uncomfortable.”

But I don’t know what to believe. I can only nod again, unsure of the next move, unsure of where this unexpected moment will lead.

I’m still pressing myself against the cool stone of the bath, my chest tight and my heart pounding as Geta slowly rises from his crouch. The sound of water lapping against the stone fills the space between us as he begins to undress, and I force myself to look away, though my eyes keep flicking back against my will. He doesn’t seem to mind. With each movement, he seems to draw closer, until finally, he steps into the water beside me. The ripples disturb the surface, but my gaze stays fixed on the far wall, desperate to avoid his eyes, his presence. Yet he doesn’t give me the luxury of solitude. He moves nearer, his voice low and soft.

“You don’t need to be so shy, Y/N.”

His hand reaches up to gently tilt my chin toward him.

His body is too close…

Once again, my heart beats furiously in my chest, almost piercing my ribcage. I don’t resist as his fingers strokes my face, warm and tender, while my breath catches in my throat. He leans in slightly, the warmth of his body radiating against my skin, and for a moment, I can’t think, I only feel the weight of his gaze on me, the pressure of his touch. His fingers trail through my damp hair, and I feel a shiver race down my spine as he gathers it gently, his touch lingering.

“I love it…” he mutters, his voice so close it sends a flush to my cheeks.

“Your hair… It’s perfect.” His hands move lower, caressing the strands that fall loosely against my shoulders.

“In fact, I love everything about you.”

My heart thumps loudly, as if it might escape my chest. I can’t stop myself from looking up at him then, my breath catching in my throat. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that leaves me breathless, and I feel exposed, as though he sees everything I am and all that I hide. His hands move slowly, carefully, tracing the curve of my arm, and my body stiffens, every muscle screaming for distance. I don’t know how to respond to the overwhelming sensation of his touch, so I pull back, my pulse racing in my throat. But he doesn’t stop; instead, he meets my hesitation with a quiet, almost gentle smile.

“I won’t take what isn’t yours to give.” he clarifies with a husky voice. “I only want to cherish you.”

His words are careful, and yet there’s an undeniable hunger in the air between us.

Before I can answer, he moves closer again, his lips brushing against the curve of my neck. The warmth of his breath makes my skin prickle, and the sensation is both soothing and unsettling at the same time. His kiss is light, but it lingers, leaving a trace of warmth on my skin that I can’t seem to ignore.

I want to pull away, to escape the heat that’s building between us, but my body stays frozen, caught between wanting to run and wanting to remain. I hear him whisper against my skin, his voice rich with something deeper, something I don’t fully understand.

“I won’t rush you…” he mutters softly, though I can’t help but feel as if he’s already claimed a part of me I didn’t want to give. His lips hover over my skin, waiting for my response, and all I can do is shaking. My heart pounds louder than my words, louder than my thoughts. I don’t know if it’s fear, desire, or something else entirely. All I know is that I can’t bring myself to leave. At that moment, his kiss deepens, a gentle pressure against my neck, and for the briefest of seconds, I forget everything but the touch of his lips and the warmth of the water.

One day, I’ll break.

They will win.

But when?

-

Here's a slightly softer chapter than the previous one. Reader and the two emperors got closer. Will they soon be able to sway her heart?

Feel free to leave your opinion :)

Thanks for your support.

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

-

⚔️ Taglist: @duckyhowls @babey-fruit-bat, @punk-in-docs, @t6gse370, @angelcloudxxsblog, @miragens-para-uma-vitoria, @himikoquack, @chloe-skywalker, @bocreep, @littlemissholy, @yeoldebytche

Ask to be added in the list! (or to be deleted)

[boba-foxy]

my proposal for a new & inclusive transmasc flag (will do a transfem & transneu ver soon) since ive heard like accusations of the creator of the most commonly used pink & blue coloured transmasc & transfem flags of them being intersexist & said that their flags are meant for perisex ppl only, included the pink stripes on their transmasc flag & the blue stripes on their transfem flags representing (usually) the person's agab which can be dysphoric for some ppl (like me for example, so thats why i dont use them after i came out as transmasc in january)

im unsure about the accuracy of these claims since i think ive heard it from a reddit thread before (but i think it might be a misremembering instead tho, so im still unsure)

(even tho i already use a diff one created by someone else who's also an inclusionist tho idk if i would use this flag i created that much but might make a stimboard featuring it tbh... anyone can use my flag unless if they are on my dni)

the lion symbol on the flag is just for decoration to make it cooler looking, no meaning tho!

[id: a 7 striped horizontal flag containing desaturated orange, yellow, light green, dark green, blue, dark blue & purple stripes, said stripe meanings (in order) are: unity between all transmascs, mspec mono, lesboy & other contradictory label using transmascs, ace spec & aro spec transmascs, socially transitoning & medically transitioning transmascs, plural system transmascs (eg: transmasc headmates) from all system origins (eg: endogenic, traumagenic, quoigenic, mixed origin, etc), neurodivergent & disabled transmascs & gender noncomforming & pronoun noncomforming transmascs. 1st image has the lion symbol on it, while the 2nd & 3rd images are the blank version & the stipe meanings.]

tagging!! : @radiomogai @imoga-pride

[bokettochild]

Yo. If you're still in a chatty mood, can I get your thoughts on Sky's reaction to finding out Legend is his blood descendant? Like, what's your favorite idea? Immediate papa bear mode? Cries and shows him off to everyone in his era because that his baby? Does Sky keep it calm? Doesn't wanna overwhelm Legend so he just leaves the ball in the veteran's court? What's your absolute favorite version of Sky's reaction?

(Mine is Sky becoming an instant dad and lifting Legend up, Lion King style, to show off to Sun XD)

As much as I adore the idea of Dad Sky (as we've seen in Flight To My Heart) I think the most in character option is for him to sort of struggle with it. Not immediate acceptance but more confusion of what his relationship should look like now, because if Time and Twilight are any indication, he should be taking a paternal role in Legend's life, right? Except, wait, they already have a brotherly relationship, so does he have to give that up now? Will Legend even accept that?

I think he'd have his moments where he sees Legend as his equal and even someone to look up too, because Legend's so smart and he knows a LOT about the world Sky is still new to, and he's got a ton of experience. But, there are other times where he glimpses where Legend's weak or struggling and he tries to be his rock, because that's his brother! But the reality is that they're not that far apart in age. I like Legend being 16-17 and Sky being early twenties; 20-21, and as someone in their early twenties with younger siblings in their late teens, I can say for a fact that it's too small of an age gap to act in any sort of parental role, especially to a kid who's not looking for a parent! Which we all know Legend won't be (especially with all his abandonment issues and lack of consistent parental figures during his growing up years).

I actually was working on something Sunday that cover this, so I'll share a snippet below (its technically for TBoHH, but shhhh, it's relevant!)

(Warriors POV for context)

  Sapphire blue slip away, downwards, brows heavy over the top and shading them as they draw tight together. “Should my feelings have changed when I found out? Should I be- I don’t know- Legend's-”    Warriors isn't aware he’s reaching out until he’s done it, hand resting on a broad shoulder only a moment because he still needs both to speak, but the moment his brother is meeting his eyes again, the captain is answering. “You’re still young, Sky. Legend’s young too, but he’s not young enough to be your actual kid. He’s your brother, and though you share blood, you have no obligation to start treating him like Time does with Twilight. Honestly, I doubt he’d appreciate it if you did.”     Because Legend is like Mask. The vet is sharp and harsh, but he trusts Sky for some reason, and looking at the two, it’s not unlike the behavior of his own two charges. Sky, like Wind, braves the storm that is his little brother and betters him by doing so. Legend, like Mask, feels free to lower his guards before the other, but he doesn’t rely on him for his needs, for guidance and wisdom, not like their rancher does with their leader. They're brothers, and though a bloodline says otherwise, they’re best that way.    “Legend doesn’t look to you as a father, though I dare say that boy needs one. If anything, I think he’d be pissed if you tried to change what you do have.” And despite himself, despite his better judgement saying not to put anything on shoulders already heavy with new weight, Warriors finds himself continuing anyways. “The vet trusts you. I don’t know what you did, but he looks at you different then he looks at us. Taking away that to change it, to make it what Time and Twilight have, that will break it. Trust isn’t a thread we can weave how we want it; it’s a blade you have to wield with care, and any change you make can’t simply be unraveled, it’s permanent.” 

[arcaeda]

"be careful." she warned, swinging one leg to the other side of the horse as he neared the front of the house. "don't do anything reckless!" when he stops for the briefest moment she leaps, kneeling forward to lighten the impact on her legs. she'd jumped off her pegasus in the climax of battle at taller heights so the action does little to slow her down, with caeda hurrying to get inside the abandoned home as soon as she stands up again.

while dimitri presumably goes around back, her eyes dart around for any sight of life within the dilapidated home. there is nothing left, with even some of the floorboard torn and broken. why would they have come in here of all places...? this was way too suspicious. caeda had a feeling they were about to uncover a more terrible crime than they originally bargained for. finding the stairs to the second level is easy enough, but she knows she shouldn't go up alone.

"dimitri!" she whispers, calling out his name as quietly as possible. "over here!"

:peach: and cream

[mothmanavenue]

In conjuntion with this art piece here

...

The war doesn’t end with a crash or a bang. Nothing explodes in a fiery shower the way he’d read about in books as a kid. There's no rocking of the ground as the world shifts under their feet, and a curling anxiety in his gut as he desperately reaches out in the link for a glimmer of one just one of his teammates, his family, his lover.

There’s just the dead drop of a falling lion as a ceasefire is called. It’s just the feeling of his fingers relaxing from a white knuckled grip on Red’s controls and his head falling back with a dull thud against the headrest of the pilot’s chair. It’s the unwinding of his spine as he slumps, all his strength and exhaustion collapsing in on him as he surrenders flight back to his lion, her battle roar softening to a gentle rumble in the back of his mind. It’s the gasps of relief and whispered gratitude of his family echoing in his ears, letting him know they’re safe, they’ve made it, it’s finally done.

Keith is completely unsurprised to note which one he prefers. 

Red’s purr is a constant source of comfort in his mind as he curls his legs toward his chest, eyes squinted in lazy, bone deep weariness, brain barely processing Shiro and Allura from their respective command stations outlining the conditions of ceasefire. He can barely think about anything outside the cramping in his fingers and the bleariness of his eyes from entire successive days spent raising Voltron’s sword, pouring his energy and willpower into convincing the strongest weapons in the universe to bend to his will.  

It’s ok if he misses something. The team will catch him up. They always have, when the tiredness consumes him, and he checks out of conversations and discussion, slumping against the nearest comforting shoulder. 

Allura’s voice is as sharp and clear as the crown that adorns her head; the queen of Altea in all her glory commands her troops from the midst of battle. Keith’s attention had been laser focused on ensuring Voltron’s continued presence, but nothing in the world could keep him from watching for Allura’s flashing blue light as she approached Haggar, now withered and raging, and knelt in front of her. Keith missed what was said, the words exchanged. But he saw the tightening of his Queen, his sister’s, shoulders, and the hand wrapping tight around the witch’s neck. 

It’s been a long eight days on this earth of his.

His brain clocks out in that moment, and he rides the warm haze he’s in, letting the satisfaction of success settle into his bones. It’s not time for celebration just yet. It will come later once the dead is counted and the shrouds are laid. Keith knows better than most the toll of war, and he dreads the time that will come when the lists of the dead will be handed to them, and he will need hours, days, weeks, to grieve people he did and didn’t know and names he’s cherished and ones he’s never heard, and each loss will still hit like a blow to the ribs. After that, the celebration will come. The ballrooms of the castle will glow with life and Hunk will dress in gold, Shiro’s white hair will gleam in the light, and Pidge will protest that she just won a war, she deserves a drink. Allura will stand regal at their side, and her shoulders will be light, free from the burden of an avenger, and she will turn to them with a gleaming grin and they won’t have any choice but to smile back at her. 

And lance.

Lance will be so handsome in his blue suit, golden and silver threaded in painstaking embroidery in the bed of deep sky. His hair will fall loose and natural in his eyes, heavenly blues, and earthy brown under the string set of his eyebrows, and he’ll gleam like a freshly lit candle. 

He’ll take Keith’s breath away and Keith will never want it back. 

But that comes after.

Right now, here, Red lands on dusty earth and grumbles in his head about doing all the work. He’s sure none of the other lions give their other halves this much shit. He loves her so fiercely it burns his throat and eyes. He can’t believe he ever spent a day outside of her. Can’t believe he wasn’t raised alongside this wonderful, temperamental, protective, grouchy cat, who bossed him and fussed him, and purred and cooed when he screamed in his dreams. Can’t believe there ever was a time he resigned himself to not having this. What a fool he was. 

The wave of emotion fills the cockpit in a lilting hum, and she lights up around him, Voltron blue piercing through the chunks in his armour. Red is as alive as a blaze and warm as a hearth in his head. 

Her mouth drops open with one final swell of affection, as she releases her paladin to his home ground. 

Keith murmurs a breathy thank you i love you you’re everything to me, as he stumbles out, hand grasping the cool metal as he comes to a rest on the shifting sands. The sand is warm from fire and fighting and it hits him all at one.

He crouches down, head hanging as he pants and gasps for breath. The emotion of the past few days shutter his eyesight till all he sees in the grains of sand sticking to his gauntlets. His head spins and his hair is falling out of the ponytail he’d tied it back in, and his breath is coming hard now. 

Something is missing. Somethings not quite right.

The swords have fallen, the helmets tossed to the side, red looms protective behind him. The shields are down the guards are dropped and he can feel the press of the Voltron bond that lets him know his team is landing nearby, drawn together with a gravitational pull.

He draws in breath, cool and refreshing and tinged with the scent of burning. Around him the sand is interspersed with freshly formed glass. 

He raises his head, expecting to see the heavens above him. He wants to take in the freshly healed scar of the newly collapsed Rigel star system. Wants to know how the blazing lights of thousands of planets worth of warfare look set against the familiar earth sky. He think he might look at the constellations, like he did not far from here a hundred years ago, tucked into his dad's strong, solid arms, the scratch of a stubbly chin accompanying a moving mouth as it named Orion, Cassiopeia, Gemini. 

He looks up expecting to see stars, and instead, he sees the sun.

Lance's smile is crooked, and his breath comes fast, like he ran, as he hovers over him. Their faces are so close he can count each individual freckle on this boy’s face, as precious to him as the gleam of moonlight cutting paths across the castle hallways. Oh this boy, this absolute death of him. 

“Hey lover,” the words leave Lance’s mouth with ease and anticipation, years of pent-up adoration spilling out with every vowel, “we did it.”

Keith feels his own smile steal across his face, “yeah, we did.” 

If possible, Lance's smile grows wider, crinkling the already forming smile lines at his eyes. Keith thinks of the products that line the counter of his bathroom sink, just waiting for a pretty bronzed hand to pick them up when the separation hits, and their resolves are softened by the press of late hours and long silence. 

A silly waste. Keith likes this look on Lance.

Aging.

What a wonderful thing he never thought he’d get to have. 

“You know what that means?” 

Lance's voice is smooth, the tremble that only a practiced ear could pick out masked by the sincerity and anticipation that has dogged their every conversation since that night on the dais. 

“We’ll wait.”

“Until when, Keith?”

“Until it’s done. When it’s done then we can have this. We can’t lose everyone for each other.”

“I’m yours?”

“When it’s done then. And when it’s done, I’m bringing you home with me. I’m putting a ring on your finger and I’m never letting you go. You’re it for me, Keith.”

“I’m not asking you to wait, that’s not fair-“

“I followed you into space Keith. I followed you to the point of no return. You aren’t asking me anything and that’s a damn shame. I’d give you anything you asked for.”

“When it’s done lance, when it’s done, I’ll ask you anything you want me to. I’ll come home with you, I’ll share a bed with you. I’ll be yours as long as you’ll have me.”

“Don’t joke, honey,”

“I’m not. You’re mine, lance”

“And-“

“you’re mine.”

The words reverberate in his head, and oh. This is what it was. The smooth slot of this thing that’s been so long coming.

Lance drops to his knees in front of him, one warm hand coming to rest on his cheek. Keith leans his head into it. He’s too tired for restraint, or shame, or any other useless emotion that would’ve held a younger him back. He’s got nothing to lose. He’s won. There’s no reason left to hold back. What a novel idea. It coats him and leaves him shivering at the feel of a gloved thumb running gently over his cheekbones.

His eyes fall back open from their unconscious close, and Lance is so close.

Honest, sweet, honourable lance. The sandpaper to all his rough edges. The iron that absorbed his burning heat. The shore that meets his rocking tide. 

Keith can hear the thunder of Pidge’s feet as they run across the uneven terrain. Hunk is following after her, his voice a cacophony of relief and joy. Shiro’s laughter is warm and thick as honey, coming easier than it has since aliens were a late-night story. Allura is giggling, high and bright, and a little hysterical. It’s ok. She’ll pull herself back together and they’ll be there to fill the cracks with liquid gold.

(Or glitter. She’d like glitter.)

Lance is watching him, and Keith’s eyes drift back to him. Lance hasn’t looked away in years. Something, some last resistance hidden away so deep he didn’t even know to search for a cure, falls away. 

He leans in and closes the gap.

...

posted on ao3 here

[always-a-king-or-queen]

Miss Pevensie, they say, can you identify these bodies for us? And you try, gentlest sibling, you try your best. But the tears are thick in your throat and the grief is bitter on your tongue, and when you shut your eyes you see fire and steel, twisting together and crushing the breath from their bodies.

You look at your father, and mother, and cousin, still and silent on their backs, bruised and bloodied and unsmiling, and their faces are anything but familiar. Were their eyes open you would be looking into the face of a stranger. You press your hand over your mouth, and you do not cry, and you tell them what they want to know. These are my parents, you hear yourself say. This is my cousin. They nod, they thank you, they direct you forward. More, more, more corpses to identify. More losses to count.

You look at your eldest brother, golden blond hair spread across his forehead, thick like the mane of a lion. There is gravel in his skin and soot on his cheeks and his face is pale, hands folded over his chest and blood threaded into his yellow sweater. Red against gold. For a moment the combination brushes your brain, touches a distant memory of battle and clashing swords, but you blink and it is gone. This is my brother Peter, you say, in a voice choked with grief. The sky looks black outside the window, and your brother’s arm still feels warm when you touch it a final time.

You look to your younger brother, dark hair tousled, blood leaking between his lips. His skin is frost pale, like snow, so white he appears to be made of stone. Shrapnel cuts into his cheeks and sends crimson trails across his face. His hands are clenched, cap askew on hair smeared with blood. They tell you he died with his sister in his arms, body curled around her in a vain attempt to keep her safe. You stare at him with a lump in your throat, and for a moment you seem to see him, silver crown upon his head, smiling with quiet gentleness. It fades, and you whisper, This is my brother Edmund. The tree outside the window seems to wilt a little as you speak. Your brother’s cheek is like ice beneath your fingertips.

You look last at your sister. She is peaceful, lips lifted in a smile, hair tangled beneath her head and shoulders. She grips something in one hand— a tiny wooden carving. A lion. Your throat clenches to see it, but you do not know why. Her skin is warm, like sunlight, but there is such coldness in her face. Such emptiness. Blood smears her sky blue dress, and you weep to see it. Blood does not belong on your baby sister. For a moment the red makes you remember her, dancing wild by a fire with berry juice smeared on her hands and mouth, but surely not. Surely such a thing never happened. This is my sister Lucy, you murmur, and are able to say no more. For a moment it seems as if a mist touches the window, and your sister’s skin is hot against your palms.

You turn away, raven-dark hair falling over your cheek, and stare out the window with tears burning your throat. There is no sun, and you think that perhaps there will never be sun again. It has been taken away forever.

(For a moment you seem to hear a voice, deep, gentle, loving. To the radiant southern sun. For a moment you feel the weight of a crown in your hair. Perhaps you are losing your sanity, bit by bit. Perhaps it was shattered the moment you heard the news).

They asked you to identify the bodies, and you did, because they are your family. They were your family. You loved each and every one of them. You loved your mother's soft fingers in your hair and your father's deep chuckle. You loved your older brother's fierce kindness and your little brother's quiet demeanor and your baby sister's merriment. You loved them all. And now you stare through the window at a sky that is heavy with rain and think of flames and twisted metal and the blood on your siblings' skin.

You close your eyes. For a brief moment you think you smell lilies, and salt, and Lucy is laughing and Edmund is smiling and Peter's arms are slung around their shoulders, and then they are looking at you and beckoning and there is a lion with golden eyes and the sun is rising into a damp new sky.

Your eyes open slowly, glazed over with tears that spill down your cheeks like rain.

And for a moment, just for a moment, you remember.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

SINS OF A LAUGHING SKYLARK (XV)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER XVI ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.0k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, angst, use of guns & weapons, military operations, death, shootings, interrogation tactics, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Sitting in a guarded building halfway across the base, your ears twitch at every little sound from beyond the door. 

Alex is here—so are three other men who fiddle with the guns in their hands and try not to stare at your deathly still face. You haven't spoken a word, and your mother, who sits with a medic stitching up her arm, calls out quickly. 

“I-I don’t even remember what he looked like,” she breathes and Alex has a hand on her shoulder, squeezing while his blue eyes dart back from the door to her tear-stained face.

“It’s alright, Ma’am. We have cameras all around here. No worries.” He smiles tightly. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you stitched up.”

The words are so similar to what Kyle would say to you that your hands clench under your chin, your body leaning forward in the chair. Your elbows dig into your knees harshly, and your unmarred leg quivers to jump up and down, restrained only by your iron will.

It was supposed to be me.

Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips, a slow breath pushed out on tight lungs.

It was supposed to be me.

Lowe is dead—Laswell had been brief in her explanation. Shot between the eyes. Your mother's attack had been a distraction, and while people had been rushed to her location, someone had gone in and killed Joey just as you’d seen someone do in the execution videos. 

He’d warned you, too. 

“I’m not someone's pawn,” you mutter under your breath, only heard to your ears. It was getting harder and harder to deny that every win on your part had been a set-up. Laswell had told you that you knew the answer already, you just couldn’t admit it to yourself—what did that mean? All you had were fractions; moments that were slowly piecing together.

“Shooter coming in from the East,” Alex’s radio buzzes, just as all the others do. From what you’d learned when Kate had pushed you in here, there were a handful of hired guns that had broken past the checkpoint only minutes after Gaz’s plane had taken off. 

“How are there so many threads,” you grunt. “Why is there so much going on right when I’m at the edge?” 

At every instance, all progress was halted.

“Bar the door. You,” Alex motions to one of the soldiers. “With me.” All in the room are more tense than lions. Alex and the rest rush to the door frame, leaning against it as the third man barricades the door with a chair under the handle. 

“It’s like I’m being…watched,” you whisper, brows furrowing. “Even down to when the reporters had shown up at the mansion right after I found the journal—”

“Sweetheart,” your mother calls quickly, worriedly. “Get away from the door.” 

You ignore her, your face grim and your pulse echoing. 

“Ex-military being used as mercenaries. Leverage.” Your eyelids flutter. “Lowe said Samson had girls; a family. Could that have been something to use against him? Is it being used against other people now? A trail like this leaves behind blood—was Samson killed to try and cover it when it went South?”

And again, the biting question even you turn up blank on—

“Why was he told he had to kill me? Why was he told he had to kill anyone?”

Forget drugs; weapons. If you had to guess…Yaromir Osipov and Mala Kham weren’t even involved in this as much as everyone else believed. A setup? A lie?

By who? For what?

“What does this mean,” you growl, hands moving up to grasp the back of your head, your skull tilting forward. “None of this is adding up.”

Gunshots ring in the hallways outside of this room. 

Only desperate men and women would storm a military base knowing that nothing they did would assure their victory. It was stupid. Reckless. 

It was utter fear of something far larger than themselves.

This was never about your father’s smuggling business. This ran deeper than you could have ever anticipated. 

Your mother’s voice calls your name harshly. “Over here. Now!”

“You need to stop lying to me,” you stand and hear your cane clatter to the floor. Your leg shakes, almost sending you over when you press your full weight on it, but nothing compares to the fire inside of your breast.

You walk over to your mother and stare into her eyes.

She startles, blinking quickly; taken aback. 

“W-what are you talking about?”

“You know what dad did, don’t say you didn’t.” Your face burns—lungs fast-paced. Alex calls to you from behind, but even the medic who pauses at your sudden hostility doesn’t interfere. “You can lie to everyone else, but you can’t do that to me. You fucking knew.”

“You watch your language,” she snaps, eyes going enraged. “What are you even saying to me? Your father? What does he have to do with this?”

Your hands jerk, taking the woman by the tops of her shoulders. She yelps, surprise alighting in her expression.

“What are you—?!”

“Tell me the truth!” You yell. “You knew he worked in the smuggling business this entire time—you knew about his dealings with Yaromir and Mala before I was even born, admit it! The drugs, the weapons; his damn dock with all of his goods! You’re not being honest with me, even three years after he’s gone.” Your face is hot with anger. “If you didn’t see the traces of it, you’re blind.”

The room is utterly silent.

Your mother opens and closes her mouth, face open to the air like she’d seen innocent people get shot in front of her—like she’d had to run for her life because of someone else’s sins.

“Tell me what you knew,” you hiss, grasping her shoulders tighter. “Tell me what you hid.”

“You’re sick,” she breathes, looking around at the others. But Alex will be no help, nor the soldiers. They guard the door, eyes snapping back and forth. The medic only watches, unprepared for your outburst. “She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”

“Tell me!” 

“Spitfire,” Alex’s yell makes your body pause, eyes narrowed in distrust as the sounds from outside get louder. Blinking out of whatever stupor you’d been in, your face freezes at the nickname, and your subconscious flashes to Kyle. 

Stepping back quickly, you drop your mother’s arms and look away; shame settling in the lines on your forehead. But you pointedly don’t apologize, only moving back quickly and moving to press the heels of your palms into your eye-sockets.

Kyle. The shootings. Lowe. Samson. Blood on your hands, blood on your hands, blood on your hands. 

It was supposed to be me.

You take a quivering breath, spine bending forward. 

Gunshots continue to boom, on and on, and you feel your mother's eyes on you; unwavering in her constant attention.

There isn’t a single part of you that can look back.

—

You stare at the phone as it sits in your hand, your limping leg walking slowly along the tiled floor. The entire building was set on lockdown—along with the base. This place, however, was now filled with trusted personnel; soldiers that had served for far longer than you’d just learned Joey had. 

Only one deployment had been under his belt, but that was enough to meet Samson. It was enough to know his character. 

Maybe everyone involved in this plot hadn’t suspected the Private because there was never anything to be suspicious about. 

Your face hadn’t let up on its tension, not for a minute, but in this tiny instance of relative calm—in some devoid hallway—you slipped into a storage room and stopped. Taking down a deep breath, your eyes flutter as your phone illuminates cleaning supplies. 

Tapping into your contacts, your thumb hovers over one of the only icons set there. 

Swallowing down saliva, your fingers twitch before, without enough time to tell yourself to stop, you press harshly and move the device up to your ear. 

Standing in the darkness, you let your eyes slip closed. 

The ringing persists, putting you into some kind of trace the longer it goes on.

Ring…ring…ring…ring. Nothing. 

You scoff, eyes opening as the phone dips down. Your hands shake over it.

“Figures.” Shrugging, your heart sinks heavily in your chest. Taking a firm step forward, your hand moves to let the device slip into your coat’s pocket before the sudden buzzing of it startles you. Head snapping down, your face blanks as you stare at the incoming call. 

‘Brit’

Only a moment passes before you take a deep breath and settle the phone back at your ear, tapping at the green button.

There’s a long second of silence before a soft clearing of a throat.

“Sorry, Love. Was getting ready for bed.”

You forgot the nine-hour time difference. Mouth opening and closing, you ignore how your body sags at the smooth tone—that accent. He sounded tired, and in the background, you could hear the rustle of sheets. You had a sneaking suspicion he’d, in fact, been in the bed instead of getting ready for it. 

“I can call back later,” you mutter, already pushing off the awkwardness that perpetuates the line. Hell, he didn’t even know about what happened when he left. Do you tell him?

“Woah, woah, hey.” A small chuckle. “No, it’s okay. Good to hear from you.”

“...Yeah,” you grunt, feet shifting. 

Another long silence permeates like a lingering curse.

“...Everything going alright, then?” Is the slow and even question; a bead of hesitation. He wasn’t sure how to speak to you like this, and, neither did you. “No messes I need to clean up?”

Your body stills.

“Only the ones you make yourself,” you sigh, huffing. A slow infection of guilt hits you. “I don’t know why I called…this is stupid.”

Kyle makes a noise over the line. “You want me to hang up?”

“No,” you whisper after a second, head moving along the walls to look at the various items slowly. “I��I just don’t know. Things are weird.”

Feet shifting, your eyes lightly flinch at the pull of your stitches. While you’d been feeling slightly better physically, meaning the vomiting and the lightheadedness, there were still aftershocks. You were well enough to grab your own food now, and when you made your own coffee, you weren’t shocked at all to find it tasting better immediately. 

“You?” Your voice asks. 

“Nah,” Kyle mutters. “Have nothing to do besides talk—been running around ever since I got here. Good to see the boys, though.”

“I’m sure they’re thrilled to have you back.”

“As thrilled as they’re able to get, eh?” Your lips quirk at that. The near-kiss in your room strikes you in the stomach like a knife. “But it's been nice, minus the whole…being away part. Still don’t like how far away I am from you.” 

“Careful,” you breathe. “Starting to sound like you like me over there.”

“Shit,” he laughs, and you fight the softness that washes your face at the sound. “You’re right. Better cut it off while I’m ahead.”

But the way his words still hold that serious edge makes your lips thin into a line. You wondered what your conversations would be about if you ever had the chance to calm down. 

“The talk with Lowe? How’d it go, then?” A deep breath, trying to be casual. “Be honest with me here, Spitfire.”

Your eyes flinch a bit, your body shifting around as you tap your foot for a moment. People will look for you soon—you have to keep this quick. You’d just needed to hear his voice. 

“It was another piece I can’t put together.” You end with that. “I feel like I’m running in circles over here, Garrick.”

Sheets rustle once more, a throaty grunt before a low breath. “I said it’ll all work out, yeah? You have to believe it will, Love. We have to keep pushing until it breaks.” A smirk is easily heard. “We all know how you like breaking things, Sweetheart.” 

You raise a slow brow, smiling even if he can’t see your expression. “You know I like having you over a call—it means I can stop hearing your voice whenever I want.”

“You going to hang up on me?”

“You know, I might.”

“Nah, you wouldn’t,” Kyle teases. “You called me, remember that?”

“And now I’m regretting it,” your voice is low and sly; face hot. 

Gaz chuckles, and your own mirrors before your heart slows to a steady pulse the longer this conversation moves on. You’d called him for a reason, and, steadily, whatever this was doing…it was making your mind slip back into a tranquil state. Part of you wanted to sit on the floor—roll up in a blanket and talk. About anything; about everything. 

But you really needed to see his face, too. 

Your tongue skates over your teeth, and you hum under your breath. “I’m thinking about asking Laswell for the USB. Try that code one last time. Think she’ll give it to me?”

Kyle’s sound momentarily stops. 

“Spitfire…”

“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” your voice is low. “Please, Kyle, I just need someone on my side with this. Will Kate give me a chance to crack the USB?”

Perhaps sensing how off-kilter you are, the Brit relents with a tiny sigh and a slow response. 

“I can call her—try to get on her good side.” 

“Does she have one?” You quirk a brow. 

“Classified.” Chuckling, your eyes stare off, delicate in every sense of the word. Like an arachnid, you dwell in this back room waiting to be caught—if only a few more moments to try and make your web; a small silk hammock of brown eyes and smooth words.

“Thank you,” your voice whispers. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“If I didn’t want to talk, I wouldn’t have called back.” He huffs a few laughs, sheepishly admitting to you. “Accidentally slapped the phone to the floor, actually.”

An unexpected laugh is pushed from your lungs.

“Why the hell would you do that?” 

“Wasn’t like I meant to, Love. Startled me.”

Your eyes roll, amusement in your tone. “Startling the SAS Sergeant—I should get a medal for that.”

“Not until you get me the one you were talking about before. Still waiting for it.”

Your legs shift over the floor. “The one with ‘idiot’ on the plaque?”

“That’s the one.” 

Your expression goes to exasperation, but the smile doesn’t leave. “Why would you want something like that?”

“Well, you’re the one giving it to me, aren’t you?” The deep tease strikes you in the throat, and you have to discreetly clear your throat so he won’t hear the heat rising to your face. 

“Cheeky,” you, dryly, state.

“I liked it.” 

“Go back to bed, Sergeant,” your grinning face is stuck to the door’s face, trying to study the woodgrain in the darkness. 

“...Yes, Ma’am.” There’s a pause where you wait for the other to hang up, though the cut of the line is absent from both parties. Kyle’s voice smoothly comes back to grace your ears. “Call you tomorrow?”  

“Yeah, okay,” you nod, knowing he can’t see you. 

“Okay…try to get some sleep tonight, Spitfire. I’m one phone call away if you need me.”

“I—” You cut yourself off, the strange sentence being choked down in your throat like a cinder block. Eyes blinking, you partially startle at the words that nearly slipped out of you to the awaiting ear on the other side. 

“Right,” you quickly move the phone from your ear and hang up. 

Standing stiffly in the storage room, your blank eyes dig ahead, and with a shaky breath, you stumble forward.

Moving out into the hallway, you swiftly backtrack to your room.

—

Sitting in your room, you insert the USB into a new laptop and lick at your lips. 

“I’m sorry about…before,” your mother walks over, placing a plate of food down in front of you along with your coffee cup. You blink up at her, a sheen of embarrassment layering itself like paint along your eyes. “I was just overwhelmed. It isn’t an excuse, I know, but…I,” you pause. “I feel bad.” 

Your mother sighs, and her hand comes up to rest on top of your head. “I knew.”

Eyes snapping up, you freeze. 

“I never told you about it, because I knew it would ruin how you saw him.” She breathes lowly. “You don’t get to choose who you end up loving. It happens and then it sticks until something else pries it loose. You don’t have to apologize to me.”

Watching her, your fast words fumble over themselves. “But what about the drug—”

“I only knew the surface,” she backs up, shaking her head. “I would appreciate it if we left it at that, please. Even if we had our problems, he was the love of my life; when he died, I shut it all out. I had to.”

You look away swiftly, but it’s a long time before you can answer her. You had no reason to think she was lying about this. All of it added up to you.

A kiss is pressed into your scalp. “Eat up. Keep your strength.” 

Watching her walk out of the room, your attention is torn away by the laptop booting up, eyes darting to it. 

Questions on questions on questions. 

Taking up your coffee, you sip at it slowly. Setting it down, you cringe at the taste. Stifling a cough haggardly into your arm, you rub at your thigh before getting to work.

—

Kyle rubs his face, sighing deeply. “This is all we've got?” 

“And that’s being generous,” MacTavish mutters, sending a slow glance. “Laswell wasn’t lying to you—we have shit-all.” 

“How is that even possible,” the Sergeant mutters, standing straight once again. He’d been bent over the countless mission reports for more than an hour, all fruitless beyond thin leads to individuals connected to your father’s business dealings. 

“Rats are used to staying in their holes,” Ghost grumbles from the other side of the table, dark eyes shifting to where their Captain comes in from the main door to the meeting room. 

A hand is slapped on Gaz’s shoulder. 

“Good to have you back, Sergeant.” Brown eyes glance at him, a smirk flickering Kyle’s lips. 

“Good to be here, Sir. Let’s get this finished.”

Price nods firmly, a hard expression on his bearded face. With strong legs, he moves to the head of the table and grunts his orders. 

“Current HVT is in Tula,” he utters in that gruff accent. “It's the only lead we have—this isn’t something we can miss.” Gloved fingers reach out to the interior blueprints of a small townhouse. “Two teams will move interior and connect the dots. If this target is in possession of any intel involving Osipov and Kham, we need to find it. Soap, you’re with Ghost, Garrick you stick with me. Total, we’ve got two teams of five involving local assistance.”

The Scot knocks forearms with his silent counterpart, and Gaz nods at the Captain in understanding. “Time frame?”

Blue eyes glance at the Sergeant. “We have a window of thirty minutes for prep and transport. We need to move fast.” Price huffs, fixing his hands onto the collar of his combat vest. “There’s the possibility of non-combatants on site. Check your shots.” 

The debrief is quick and thorough, and that night everything comes to a head. 

Kyle’s body soon sits in the back of an armored vehicle, a night-vision rig on his head, rifle in his arms, and his body hunched forward on the seat. In the back of his pocket, his phone sits—set to mute even if he yearned to take it up and see if you’d called him. 

Being away made him nervous for you. Such relentless pursuers…but he had to believe that the actions he’s taking here will make all the difference in the end. Keller can watch after you and your mother; he placed his faith in the Agent before, and he can do it again. 

But there was an ever-present pressure on his chest that won’t leave. A weight. Some kind of fishing hook stuck into the back of his brain that pulls every so often, dragging him back to the pole. 

He needed to get this over with as quickly as possible and try to find a way to get back to you. Even that first phone call had been layered with hesitation—you weren’t telling him something.

That only made him more worried. 

“Garrick,” Price’s voice snaps him out of it, brown eyes snapping up from where they’d been spacing out. His Captain’s voice is low. Steady. “On you.”

The vehicle had come to a stop. Blinking, Gaz nods quickly. “Right.” Hand reaching out, it settles heavily to the side door and pushes after a glance to everyone in the seats. 

Boots hit to concrete in muffled thumps, bent knees taking weight as eyes scan relentlessly like wolves.

It was deep night—a night where the air is even still in slumber. Mist hung like a pale shroud, and over puddles in the potholes, Kyle’s focus instantly hardened as he splashed through them. 

Now wasn’t the time to think, it was the time to act. 

He hurries down a long stretch of alley between the target’s house and the one beside it, slinking along with his rifle’s stock pressing into the clutch of his shoulder. His cheek rests against the side, breathing slowly. 

Adrenaline overtakes his heart. 

Conforming to the side entrance of the townhouse, he waits as Price moves past him to the other side. They look at one another, the bodies of the other soldiers surrounding them. Over the coms, Ghost’s voice comes through. 

“In position.” 

“Let’s do this,” Kyle grunts, intent on Price’s expression. A moment of silence passes—only the anticipatory carnage that’s to follow; unthinking minds as fingers pull triggers. Instinct. 

The Captain gives a quick nod, and the hunt starts.

After a quick breaking of the door, they all move interior. The skeletal-faced Lieutenant and the Demolitions Expert take the upper floor working down with their team, and below, Garrick and Price do the same, going up. 

Sneaking nearer to the kitchen, Gaz lays eyes on two men taking near the dining room. Body flattening against the door frame, his Captain mutters to him as he passes the opening undetected. “Drop ‘em.”

It’s a quick end—the only sound is the metallic clink of shell casings and the thump of bodies. Behind the Sergeant, one other soldier follows at his six. 

Dead eyes stare ahead as Garrick passes, and he glances at them only once before moving on. 

Waiting at the stairs, Kyle re-joins the main unit, and after a quick once-over, they all begin ascending as more sounds from the level above are picked up on twitching ears. The sharp hushing of civilians—the drop of bodies. It’s all familiar, but somewhat jarring after being away from it for so long. 

Part of him had gotten used to the trials of VIP work. 

There’s a shout from just above, and the rush of the job comes in a fast wave. The coms alight.

“We’ve got the bastard.” Soap’s sharp voice bounces off the walls and their ears, going through the house. 

“Good,” Price barks. “Stay where you are.”

Cautiously, yet quickly, all of the men regroup where their HVT is being held—in his office near the South corner. 

“Shura Makarovich Agapov,” the Captain’s voice is a low rasp as his body thumps forward. It was plain to tell that this game was getting on his nerves. Lead after lead drying up more than water in a desert. 

This man was all they had.

Gaz blinks at him as the other soldiers move about the office, grasping papers with quick fingers and looking through them—looking for anything of importance. Lowering his rifle back to his chest, the Sergeant studies the walls; eyes slipping over hung-up maps. 

“You’re going to tell me about your superiors,” Price’s voice lowers to a harsh whisper as he nears the man. 

Shura Makarovich is a large man. Sure of his body so much so that Ghost had tightened the restraints until he saw the Russian’s hands start to go blue. Johnny’s grip never leaves his weapon. 

“I do not speak to men who follow orders,” the man eases out casually as if not at all disturbed by the death of his friends and the arrest of his family. “Only the ones who give them.”

“I’d say I’m giving more orders than you right now, eh?” Price taunts, head tilting as he addresses the squad. “Anything?”

“Nothing yet, Sir.”

Price’s jaw clenches. “Yaromir Osipov. Where is he?”

“Yaromir Osipov?” Shura Makarovich’s face twitches. He seems confused for a moment, and Gaz clocks it instantly. The Sergeant’s brows pull in slowly as the hostage flips his tune. “...Why would I tell you that?”

He doesn’t know him, Gaz knows. 

Price kneels down as papers are tossed and pushed to the floor; Kyle’s brain working overtime. 

If he doesn’t know about Yaromir, then why was he an HVT at all? Why did the thread lead to him? His boots take him across the floor, moving to the papers on the desks, moving them as Soap asks a low question as to what he’s doing. Kyle shrugs him off, looking for something that could explain things. 

“Ghost,” Price mutters, and the Lieutenant moves out into the hallway quickly. The Captain looks deeply into Shura Makarovich’s eyes before standing. 

There’s a commotion from outside; yelling, before Ghost returns with a woman in hand, harshly pulling her over the ground until her feet stumble. 

Gaz’s eyes shoot up, and he goes deathly still. 

The woman only speaks in Russian, glancing at her confidant quickly and calling his name. Shura seems taken aback, blinking rapidly. 

“What are you doing?”

“Where’s Yaromir?” Price gets up and moves back. Shura makes a play to bolt up, but Soap’s hand shoves him harshly back down. 

“Stay the fuck down,” the Scot growls. 

“What is this?!” Kyle watches, stiffly standing from a few feet away. All of it was…your face flashes through his mind, and before he can tell himself to stop, he’s moving over to Price on heavy legs. 

“Captain,” he slips beside the man, his voice nothing but a murmur but the sharp shock is no trick on the senses. “What’s the play here?”

Blue eyes move slowly his way, face twitching. 

“Sergeant, set aside,” Kyle’s expression tightens, dark eyes darting to the woman that Ghost holds. 

“Price, I can’t—”

“You can leave if you need to, Garrick.” 

“This isn’t the way we have to do things,” Gaz’s voice lightly raises, and that’s all it takes for Price to grasp his shoulder and take him out of the door firmly. 

Getting lightly pushed out into the hallway, the Captain’s grim face swivels as the door is tapped closed with a boot. 

“Are you in or out, Sergeant?” Is leveled at him without emotion. “We don’t have time to play morality games. You’re either in that room with me, or you aren't. Which is it?”

“We can’t have a repeat of three years ago,” Kyle’s expression is troubled, his once sure mind fracturing. 

This wasn’t right.

“Price, there has to be another way.” Blue eyes don’t blink at him, but the Captain’s low sigh and the fix of his feet are all the words needed. 

“Stay out,” Price eases, eyes moving over the Sergeant’s face. A hand pats Gaz on the arm, and soon the Captain disappears back into the room, closing the door behind him. 

It wasn’t disappointment that the man had given Kyle—it would never be that. But some things had to be done. 

Some people had to get dirty to keep others clean. 

“Fucking…” the Sergeant trails, head moving in aggression and his legs shifting. His hand comes up and rubs at his chin, eyes half-closed in concern. 

You’d gone and messed with his head.

Kyle’s mind flashes to you—the way your eyes had gazed into his as your lips had been so close. Your breath over his face. Even the pound of your pulse when he’d put his hand to your forehead to check your temperature.

How your body would melt when he pulled you out of nightmares. 

This wasn’t right. 

It had all been his fault. It was the type of guilt that he’d carry to the grave with him; one that would never leave for as long as he tried. 

What he’d done to you…

“It’s fucking unforgivable,” he whispers under his breath, fingers tapping his rifle’s stock. He can’t let it happen to someone else. 

“What am I missing,” Kyle urges himself, feet shifting along the floor. “There’s something there—what is it?! He doesn’t bloody know Yaromir, what does that mean?” 

But what if Yaromir was never involved in this cell in the first place?

Brown eyes spark as a sharp scream echoes from under the door. Barreling through with a slam of wood, the words coming out of Gaz’s mouth are loud, but oh so steady. 

It’s as clear as day.

“We know about the location in China.”

Wide eyes from all around jerk back to him, and Price’s face slashes from shocked to enraged in a mere second. 

“What the fuck are you—?”

“Chiyou,” Kyle barks, moving closer on fast feet until he’s taken Shura by the collar of his shirt and forced him to his feet. The Russian’s eyes are jumping, his mouth opening and closing. 

Gaz’s face leans in close, searching for it—for the one emotion he needs from him to prove the lie he’s spewing from your hypothesis is correct. Behind him, the tiny sobs from the woman are muffled by her hands. 

“We know all of it is centered in Eastern China.” 

At the fast sweep of fear, Garrick already knew he had won. 

You’d been right.

Without another word, the Sergeant lets Shura drop and walks out of the room—already on the phone with Laswell.

TAGS:

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[stalwaria]

Now, Etie hadn't exactly absorbed the full breadth of the rules before running off with her arrows, each head tied with a small pouch of blue paint. All she had gathered was that the monastery was swept up in a new game, where people attempted to cover as much of the campus as they could with their House's color.

An odd activity for a church to take part in—she could never imagine anything like this happening at one of Firene's cathedrals—but when in Fodlan...

(Had the officials even sanctioned this? She didn't ask. But so many people were taking part that they had to know about it, right?)

Deciding to cast her musings aside for the time being, the archer takes up her bow and ducks behind a nearby pillar, watching as a fiery haired girl splatters a nearby wall with yellow paint. Bleh.

Leveling her bow with practiced aim, Etie fires an arrow at the same spot, covering the yellow with a beautiful swath of royal blue instead. It's only after this that she realizes the other redhead was in fact Panette, and the revelation brings a smile to her lips.

"For Firen—er, the Lions!" Etie cries, jumping out from her hiding place.

colors of the spirit

mission board: anniversary / bow prompt. ( for @atefirom )

[maryu-fics06]

The Casket of Venus

Chapter 1

𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡

𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐱 𝐨𝐜

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fake blood,gore, death of a character.

The banquet was bustling with guests, and the imperial palace celebrated Armilustrium in honor of the god Mars, the Roman “𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐬,” for the return of General Acacius, who had conquered Numidia.

The two emperors sat on their ivory thrones. Caracalla seemed in good spirits as he watched one of his concubines play with him and pour his wine.

Geta watched everything, bored, while a senator next to him spoke of politics and the old meeting he had attended the week before.

Then a noble merchant entered the grand royal hall with a group of women, all veiled, as though their beauty were gold.

Everyone's attention-guests and twin emperors alike-was immediately captured.

"My dear emperors! From a rich journey to the colonies of Magna Graecia, Trinacria, I have found various treasures, and I wish to offer them to you."

The man stepped forward and took hold of the first woman. Her white veil shifted, revealing golden locks at the abrupt movement.

Her face was unveiled, and a sound of astonishment swept through the banquet—even the oldest senators and the most stoic guards were struck.

She had a body worthy of a goddess or nymph—full curves, rounded hips, firm thighs visible beneath the white tunic, and soft breasts highlighted by a neckline clearly chosen to show them off.

Wheat-colored hair adorned her head, and her face was a delight: a pointed nose, full lips, rosy cheeks, and eyes the color of a sea blended with forest green.

She looked like 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐬—descended to Earth from Olympus to witness the miserable lives of mortals.

Geta was struck, while Caracalla appeared bored and continued sipping his wine.

The younger emperor stood up and descended the few steps of black marble.

The merchant smiled slyly, like a worm, and bowed.

He grabbed the woman by the head and pushed her down in a show of virtue, but the emperor's voice growled out with threatening authority:

"Take your 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 off her."

The merchant obeyed immediately, fearing for his life. The girl remained still as the emperor circled her like a lion eyeing a lamb. For the first time, he felt truly captivated by a woman.

Haydee looked down, finding the marble floor more interesting than the evil curiosity around her. She prayed to Athena for courage and not to succumb to fear.

Her body trembled as a rough hand grabbed her face. Her eyes met two black pearls in the shadow-but for a moment, molten amber gleamed in the light.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart pounded violently in her chest.

"Tell me your name."

The emperor's hoarse voice snapped her out of her thoughts. It wasn't a request-it was a command.

Her voice, delicate like honey, slipped from her lips, and the emperor seemed enchanted.

"𝐇𝐚𝐲𝐝𝐞𝐞, my emperor."

The Greek accent was clear in her voice.

Geta stared at her for a few seconds, then ordered nearby servants to bathe her and take her to his chambers. Haydee followed them without a word.

Meanwhile, the emperor approached a Praetorian guard, unsheathed the soldier's sword, and the metallic scent filled the air. The other slaves screamed in terror at the horrifying scene.

Haydee could only hear gargling sounds-then silence. Bile rose in her throat as she saw the merchant's body on the ground, bathed in his own blood.

Caracalla burst out laughing, clapping his hands like a child with a new toy.

"Clever move, brother!" he snigger, flashing a golden tooth.

Haydee walked alongside the two servants, horrified, as they left the banquet. The palace felt like the labyrinth of Knossos-but there was no Minotaur, nor a Theseus ready to save an Arianne who had left him her red thread.

No-here, there was a lion.

A lion ready to devour her.

The woman's blue eyes widened at the sight of the grand Roman baths. She was helped out of her clothes and slowly entered the warm, oil-scented water. Her hair and body were washed. She felt like a doll-clean and pertumed now.

Once bathed, she was escorted into a regal chamber of red marble streaked with gold. A large bed stood in the center. A table beside it was piled with scrolls, and to the left, a white velvet triclinium adorned the room. There was even a balcony.

It was the emperor's chamber-clear from the many weapons on the walls and a magnificent golden armor mounted above. He was a warlord, after all.

Alone in the center of the room, Haydee sighed. She prayed to Zeus, seeking answers, but silence filled the space, leaving only more doubts in the poor woman's mind.

Why had the gods chosen this fate for her?

Why her, to serve the emperor?

Why such a heavy burden?

Was her death near?

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Hi guys! I hope the first Chapter was to your liking, I'm quite excited, many friends told me to publish this story and I want to share this with everyone.

@jayden-killer ( my partner in crime)

[lunchboxpoems]

FROM THE JAPANESE

1.

A cat stirs in the material world.

And suddenly sunlight pours into the room

as though somewhere a blind had been opened.

And on the floor, the white bars of a ladder appear.

2.

Gwen is sobbing in the front yard; she is three.

The Spanish maid strokes her hair—Gwen

is bilingual; she dries her eyes,

a few petals falling from the jacaranda tree.

Now the door opens: here is Jack, the athlete, in his combat boots.

For the next hour he runs

first away from, then toward his family.

And here is Trixie, roaming the driveway,

huge in comparison

to the rigid bird. Boring bird,

that will not chirp and fight anymore.

She flicks it once or twice,

under the grapefruit, under the lemon tree.

Early summer: fog covers the mountains.

Under each tree, a doily of shade.

3.

At first, I saw you everywhere.

Now only in certain things,

at longer intervals.

4.

We were walking the Japanese gardens

among the cherry trees,

a path you chose

deliberately in desolate November

as though I myself had ordered down

the petals, the black

nuggets of the fruit—

Nearby, a boy sailed his wooden boat,

home and away, home and away.

Then the thread snapped; the boat

was carried toward the waterfall.

“From this moment I will never know

ease,” you said, “since you have lied to me,

nor joy.” The boy

covered his face with his hands.

There is another world,

neither air nor water

but an emptiness which now

a symbol has entered.

5.

The cat

misses her master.

She climbs the brick wall,

a feat

Gwen determines

to copy: loud

objections from the Spanish maid.

Tears, shuffling. At the water’s edge,

the boy finally

lowered his hands.

He had a new toy, a thread

tied to a lost thing—

Twilight: in her blue sombrero

Gwen reconstructs the summer garden.

6.

Alone, watching the moon rise:

tonight, a full circle,

like a woman’s eye passing over abundance.

This is the most it will ever be.

Above the blank street, the imperfections

solved by night—

Like our hearts: darkness

showed us their capacity.

Our full hearts—at the time, they seemed so impressive.

Cries, moans, our important suffering.

A hand at the small of the back

or on the breast—

And now across the wall

someone is clearing the table,

wrapping the dark bread and the white ceramic pot of butter.

What did we think?

What did we talk about?

Upstairs, the light goes on.

It must be

Gwen’s, it burns

the span of a story—

7.

Why love what you will lose?

There is nothing else to love.

8.

Last night in bed your

hand fell heavily upon

my shoulder. I thought

you slept. Yet we are

parted. Perhaps the sheet moved,

given your hand’s weight by

the dampness of

my body. Morning: I have

written to thank you.

9.

The cat sleeps on the sidewalk,

black against the white cement.

The brave are patient.

They are the priests of sunrise,

lions on the ramparts, the promontory.

LOUISE GLÜCK