#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     𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍     ���𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃     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, duce 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." duce 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 duce 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.

duce 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. duce 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 stare 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

[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

[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.

[wereprinxe]

HELLO!

I made an interactive thread on Twitter to make yourself/sona/oc in REDACTEDVERSE! YEAH!

I wanted to do it the same was here too, but it's only 10 pictures per post. >:(

So tumblr version will have a link and text only, to have everything in one place, sorry! /lh

Scrolling further, there is Tumblr version!

Twitter link:

YOUR POWERS - BASED ON YOUR BIRTH MONTH

JANUARY - Elemental

FEBRUARY - Seer

MARCH - Psychokinetic

APRIL - Illusory

MAY - Dreamwalker

JUNE - Warder

JULY - Stealth

AUGUST - Vampire

SEPTEMBER - Energetic

OCTOBER - Telepath

NOVEMBER - Shifter

DECEMBER - Freelancer

---

YOUR SPECIFIC POWER - BASED ON YOUR BIRTH DAY:

(if elemental/energetic)

1-11 - Air Elemental, Electro Energetic

12-17 - Fire Elemental, Graviton Energetic

18-24 - Water Elemental, Magneto Energetic

25-31 - Earth Elemental, Sonal Energetic

---

YOUR SPECIFIC POWER - BASED ON YOUR BIRTH DAY:

(if shifter)

1-3 - Primate Mammals (Lemur, Monkey, etc)

4-7 - Reptiles (Lizard, Snake, etc)

8-11 - Hoofed (Deer, Horse, etc)

12-15 - Fish (Shark, Eel, etc + exception of Dolphin)

16-19 - Bird (Parrot, Crow, etc)

20-23 - Canine Mammal (Wolf, Dog, etc)

24-27 - Feline Mammal (Lion, Cat, etc)

28-30 - Rodent Mammal (Rabbit, Mouse, etc)

31 - Other Unmentioned Mammals (like Raccoon, Hedgehog, Bear, Skunk, etc)

---

YOUR HOMETOWN - BASED ON YOUR BATTERY PERCENT

0-15% - McKinley

16-30% - Kennedy

31-45% - Borden

46-60% - Dahlia

61-85% - Mont Blanc

86-100% - Duke

---

YOUR JOB - BASED ON YOUR FAVORITE COLOR:

(or the color of your shirt if multiple or no fav)

RED - 7/eleven

ORANGE - Academy Staff

YELLOW - Max's Rustic Pizza

GREEN - CloseKnit

BLUE - E.M.T.

PURPLE - Shaw Security

PINK - Vesta Distribution Company

BLACK/GRAY/WHITE - Department

---

BORN AS - BASED ON YOUR DOMINANT HAND:

RIGHT-HANDED - Magicborn

LEFT-HANDED - Humanborn

AMBIDEXTROUS - Free choice!

---

YOUR LOGO - BASED ON YOUR (SUN) ZODIAC SIGN's ELEMENT:

(the one on your birthday, most recognized zodiac sign)

AIR (Gemini, Libra, Aquarius) - Jewelry/Accesories (Earrings, Rings, etc)

WATER (Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces) - Technology (Laptop, Game Console, etc)

EARTH (Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn) - Weapon (Crossbow, Sword, etc)

FIRE (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius) - Home Decor (Mirror, Bookshelves, etc)

---

END OF SILLY FUNNY HAHA THREAD! HAVE FUN!

[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 )

[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:

@merkitty49, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @babybooday, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee, @chestnutsandcurls, @vamqyr3, @lavalleon, @nebula67, @urfavsunkissedleo

[cressida-jayoungr]

One Dress a Day Challenge

October: Silver Redux

The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe / Tilda Swinton as Jadis, the White Witch

I think all these shots are of the same dress, but it's hard to be certain. The White Witch's costumes get progressively darker as the film goes on, and her icicle crown gets smaller, as if melting, to symbolize the waning of her power. So she starts out in pure, snowy white with tinges of pale blue and progresses to this silver dress with a texture resembling cracks in ice that is about to break up. Looking at the close-up, it appears this effect was achieved with a thick batting, like a mattress pad, overlaid with a web of silvery thread.

Costumes for this film were designed by Isis Mussenden.

[fellstcr]

⚔️ //  “...so  the  flow  of  time  has crossed  our  paths  once more.”  probably  a  rather  odd  thing  to  say  ,  when  the  words  had  come  after  byleth  had  just  torn  through  the  stem  of  a  large  and  imposing  plant  that  had  sprung  up  from  the  ground  in  a  rush  of  thorny  vines  and  spiked  leaves.  where  it  once  had  snapped  its  pointed  maw  and  dripped  liquid  poison  ,  it  now  lay  lifeless  on  the  ground  ,  acidic  green  steam  rising  where  the  remnants  touched  anything  organic. 

            ahead  of  them  was  an  expansive  jungle  ,  filled  with  fauna  that  rustled  in  the  depths  ,  and  flora  that  rose  high  above  their  heads.  oversized  palm  fronds  the  size  of  an  entire  person  ,  and  bright  flora  that  ,  much  like  this  carnivorous  plant  ,  likely    posed  more  of  a  threat  than  your  average  meadow  daisy. 

         byleth  turned  to  peter  and  tilted  her  head.   “and  it  is  fortuitous  that  it  did.  have  you  lost  your  traveling  companion  ,  peter?  ...  or  did  you  venture  into  these  hidden  realms  alone?”

@prieldi​ / — down you go

[dcggersedge]

...alright, maybe Poe had her on that one. Yunaka doesn't quite smile, but she doesn't roll her eyes either. Some sort of wave of emotion rolls through her, in the middle ground of the two.

"Point of being a student is still to grow." Even if it's not physically. Even if Poe carries herself like she has all the knowledge of the world already shifting around in that pink head of hers. "And you can't focus on doing that if you're hungry."

You can't do much of anything when you're hungry. It was why the promise of food was always such a good motivator for the desperate.

Yunaka shrugs. Her eyes haven't pulled away from the tent, still. The flaps at the entrance haven't been secured. Every once in a while, she can see the movement of the knight inside, and every glance makes her patience grow shorter. Leave already.

Waiting had always been her least favorite part of the job.

"I'll eat later. Not exactly fond of the company, right now." She avoids unfamiliar knights on a good day, old habits a constant whisper in her ear to stay on guard. Hearing how gleefully they indulge now, all while knowing the citizens they're were "sworn to protect" go hungry just within reach...

It is at Poe's suggestion does Yunaka finally pull her eyes away from the tent to meet hers. If she knows Poe as well as she does (which is likely only what Poe wants her to know), she knows it's more than an idle suggestion.

Yunaka's head tilts to the side slightly. "...it's rude to show up to somebody's dinner uninvited." A line she remembers her master saying casually as he sipped his flask to any foolish upstart of a knight who found their way to their tavern. "...if I join them, it should be with something to share."

Hence, the tent. Her eyes return to it again. Still in there.

only hunger and envy in their hearts

[cruel-as-the-midday-sun]

The Tiger's Gambit

(closed RP thread for @queen-of-prophecy )

–––––

Rakesh’s palace stood as a symbol of untamed power and grandeur, carved from deep sandstone that glimmered faintly under Gluttony’s perpetual sunset.

Its walls bore intricate carvings of ferocious beasts and epic battles, a testament to the Maharaja’s victories and dominion.

Surrounding the palace were sprawling gardens, lush with rare plants and vibrant flowers, their scents drifting through the air. Servants, like silent shadows, worked tirelessly, tending to the gardens and ensuring the palace's upkeep without a word. The soft gurgle of fountains punctuated the quiet, their waters shimmering faintly.

Inside, the palace reflected a balance between raw power and refined taste. The floors, made of cool light marble, stretched beneath towering pillars carved into the shapes of prowling lions and roaring tigers.

Pardas (curtains) of rich silk hung from the walls, interspersed with tapestries that depicted the Maharaja’s rise to power. Chandeliers fashioned from bones and gold hung from vaulted ceilings painted with celestial scenes, reminding all who entered of Rakesh’s angelic origins and his violent fall.

On the eastern balcony, overlooking the vast gardens, Rakesh reclined in a low chair, his amber eyes fixed on the horizon. A long, carved pipe made of ivory rested between his fingers, the sweet smoke curling lazily into the air.

On the small wooden table beside him, an ancient scroll lay partially unrolled, its delicate script glowing faintly under the dim light.

The faint rustle of footsteps caught Rakesh’s attention. Sarin, his most trusted aide, approached with precise steps. The demon, with sleek leopard features and piercing blue eyes, adjusted his glasses and bowed slightly. Dressed in a sharp kurta-pajama paired with a tailored jacket, he carried the air of unwavering efficiency.

“My Maharaja,” Sarin said, his tone respectful yet steady. “News from the court of Emperor Paimon in Pride. Queen Vine has been excommunicated. King Lucifer himself has intervened, limiting her powers and confining her to a lower ring beneath Sloth...she called it the Ring of Heresy. Queen Vine herself created it.”

Rakesh inhaled deeply from his pipe, the amber tip glowing before he exhaled a steady stream of smoke.

“Aakhir hua jo hona tha (It was bound to happen).”

He said, his voice calm, almost detached. He closed the scroll with deliberate care and set it aside.

“Lucifer’s mercy was never endless, and Vine...she has always danced too close to the edge. But that is part of her allure.”

Sarin hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

“How would you like to proceed, Maharaja?”

Rakesh rose from his chair, his towering figure casting a long shadow. He rested one hand on the balcony’s railing, staring into the distance.

“Prepare crates of food, a luxury yurta, warm clothes, and supplies. Cheese and wine, especially. Send them to her.”

Sarin tilted his head slightly, curiosity clear in his eyes.

“A gift of compassion, my Maharaja?”

Rakesh chuckled, low and dangerous, baring sharp teeth.

“Nahi, Sarin (No, Sarin). This is no mere act of kindness. It’s a message. Vine is still of use to me, and she’ll remember who stood by her when no one else did.”

Sarin nodded, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Samajh gaya, Maharaja (Understood, Maharaja). I’ll ensure the preparations are flawless.”

“Shabash (Good).”

Rakesh said, clapping his hands once and standing from his chair.

"Make sure everything is ready as soon as possible."

“Ji, Maharaja (Yes, Maharaja).”

Sarin replied with a bow before retreating to fulfill the orders.

––––

The palace buzzed quietly with activity as preparations for the convoy began. Crates of food, warm clothes, and other essentials were being carefully loaded onto wagons by servants, their movements efficient under the sharp eyes of Sarin. The leopard demon, clipboard in hand, supervised every detail, ensuring nothing was forgotten.

In the courtyard, Rakesh stood tall in his traveling attire: a long angrakha (robe) of dark crimson, paired with a heavy, gold-trimmed cloak. His pipe hung from his hand, unlit for once, as he surveyed the progress. The weight of his decision was evident in the tension of his jaw, though his amber eyes betrayed none of his inner thoughts.

Sarin approached, bowing slightly before speaking.

“Maharaja, the convoy is nearly ready. The last of the supplies are being secured.”

Rakesh gave a single nod, his gaze never leaving the wagons.

“Good. I’ll be going with them.”

Sarin straightened, momentarily caught off guard.

“You intend to go yourself, Maharaja?”

“Yes,” Rakesh said firmly, turning to face his aide. “I won’t entrust this task to anyone else. Vine has always been...complicated. I need to see her with my own eyes, speak to her directly. This exile of hers is not the end: only the beginning of something greater. And I intend to ensure she understands that.”

Sarin adjusted his glasses, his expression thoughtful.

“Do you think she’ll be in any state to listen, Maharaja? From the reports, her punishment was severe.”

Rakesh’s lips curled into a faint, wolfish grin.

“Vine is many things, Sarin, but weak is not one of them. She may be broken, but she will rise again...agar sahi raasta dikhaya jaaye (if shown the right path). I’ll make sure she knows who stands beside her when the dust settles.”

Sarin nodded slowly.

“Very well, Maharaja. I’ll prepare your carriage and ensure everything is in place for the journey.”

“Shabash (Good),” Rakesh replied, his voice low and commanding. As Sarin turned to leave, Rakesh called out,

“And Sarin...keep your wits about you. This visit is not just for her sake...it’s for mine. Opportunities like this don’t come often, and I’ll not let it slip through my grasp.”

“Samajh gaya, Maharaja (Understood, Maharaja).”

Sarin replied with a bow, disappearing into the flurry of activity.

As the convoy prepared to set out, Rakesh stood at the forefront, his figure imposing and resolute.

This...was only his first move.

[auroravictorium]

still in love and half alive (k.b.)

can't say we didn't try. baby, we're a bad idea. - bad idea by dove cameron

Summary: kaz and reader have a job: take out the leader of one of the newest up-and-coming gangs in the barrel that hope to fill the vacuum left by pekka rollins's departure. said job requires reader to utilize her skills from her days as a showgirl; despite the unpleasant reminders of her past, she completes the job and helps other showgirls and the low grunts of the new gang in the process.

Pairing(s): kaz x former showgirl!reader (established relationship) Word Count: 4.6k Warnings: alcohol consumption, men being creepy, poor treatment of women (nothing explicit, just allusions to men treating them like crap), allusions to past exploitation, kaz having non-explicit thoughts about reader, reader playing up the seduction factor, violence [cutting someone with a dagger, kaz choking someone, kaz hitting someone with his cane], mentions of past trauma, very quick mention of kaz's haphephobia Genre: action-ish, a little angst, fluff near the end Request? Yes! (@futurecorps3)

Author's Note: hello hello! so this is an absolute BEAST of a one-shot, but i couldn't figure out where to split it. i hope you all enjoy <3

Kaz sat in the far corner of the entertainment hall, nursing his drink and trying to keep his jealousy at bay. Patrons and dancers milled about, amusing themselves with conversation, cards, or propositions. A few disappeared up the rickety stairs to amuse themselves, laughing and stumbling with drinks in one hand and cigarettes in the other. The room reeked of smoke, liquor, and sweat. 

He was only here for your sake. If he were smart, he would be anywhere else, certainly not in some up-and-coming gang's crumbling entertainment hall. If he could, he would leave you to play your part. You could hold your own just fine, no protection from Kaz needed; but jealousy had him rooted to his teetering stool in the corner, with his watered-down liquor in a gloved hand and a scowl on his face. He couldn't bring himself to leave. Not when three dozen men were staring at you in a tiny dress that hugged your waist.

You'd paid a hefty sum for the chance to dance on the stage; from your position, you could survey the bar for the man calling himself the leader of such an establishment. Armed with a description of the wannabe gang leader and three knives hidden under your sparkling red dress, you circled the shimmering pole in the center of the stage and traced your gaze over the people watching you. 

There was no sign of the target, Pieter Gabel. It took every ounce of your self-control to resist a sigh, and you decided to do a lazy spin around the pole to amuse your audience. A few men whistled as you hooked your arm around the pole and spun, letting the light catch in the faux diamonds threaded in your hair. You settled on the ground again and tossed your hair over your shoulder, scanning the crowd for the only set of eyes that mattered.

You didn't find Kaz in the crowd. Not that you expected to. Instead, you caught his gaze from across the room, his icy blue eyes illuminated by a near-snuffed candle on his table. To anyone else, he looked as indifferent as ever, maybe vaguely interested in the spectacle on stage. But you saw the slant of his mouth, the clench of his jaw, how something dark glimmered in his eyes, perhaps a promise of violence. He didn't like all the attention on you.

So you offered a small smile, a look reserved for him and him alone. You'd apologize later, but he'd understand. You were doing what needed to be done. The stage gave you the best vantage point in the building, and Gabel had to be found and driven out of the city. The Barrel was tense enough while the remnants of the Dime Lions attempted to regroup; the Dregs needed to eliminate any rising threats as soon as possible.

You and Kaz both knew that. He'd forgive you once you were off that damn stage and by his side, helping him rule the Barrel. 

For years, crowds of tourists and too-rich men waited at your feet, leering at you like you were nothing more than a pretty face and a body to buy, bed, or watch with predatory glints in their eyes. They didn't bother to see past the costume and see how sharp and dangerous you could be. To them, you were nothing more than a piece of entertainment. 

But Kaz saw right through the ruse and saw every jagged scar your past had left. He saw how Ketterdam had sharpened you into a dangerous weapon, ready to wreak revenge on a city that had hurt you deeply. 

Like called to like. Your similar tastes for vengeance pulled Kaz toward you, despite all attempts on his end to ignore the summons. For years after you joined the Dregs, he settled for admiring you from afar until you got sick of his shit and told him to either do something about his feelings or quit scaring off everyone who looked your way.

You didn't say it so kindly, of course, and Kaz reluctantly admitted you had a point, though he knew it was a bad idea to indulge his feelings and yours. But he had, and he couldn't bring himself to regret it. The year since had passed in stolen moments after jobs, in the shadowed corners of the Crow Club during the slow hours, and peaceful mornings and evenings in either of your rooms. 

Your set was coming to an end, and there was still no sign of the target. After one final circle around the stage, one last attempt to entice more kruge to fall at your feet, you slipped through the moth-eaten curtains behind the poles and left the cheering audience behind you. 

As soon as their eyes left your body, you shuddered, clasping your hands over your forearms and making a beeline for the back hallway leading to the dark, rotting dressing rooms. As soon as you could, you pulled on the coat Kaz had given you, an exact match to the one he usually wore but tailored to your size. It was fur-lined, and it covered you up. Exactly what you needed to battle the cold shame beginning to cling to your skin after your performance.

No matter how often you put on the ruse and brought your old life back from the dead for a night, it was a feeling you could never shake. Being with Kaz, knowing he was out there and he would never judge you for your past, helped. More often than not, he was the one telling you that you didn't have to do this; there were other ways to spot your targets, to bring them down. He made sure you knew you didn't need to be exploited anymore. All you needed to do was have your weapons and wit ready.

But using the sins and vices of Ketterdam against itself was the easiest way to do this. It gave you power, something you didn't have during your days as a showgirl. Before, you were a puppet. Now, you were the puppetmaster, fueled and encouraged by someone equally as dangerous as you. He would never allow Ketterdam to suck you back into that life again. You would never let yourself.

As you slipped back into the crowd, you were pleased by the anonymity of wearing a coat and removing your elaborate makeup. You crossed the entertainment hall to Kaz's shadowy table and settled on the stool across from Kaz.

His eyes turned toward you, landing on your freshly-bound hair and the grim expression on your face. "Are you alright?" he said quietly. Though his face didn't change, you knew he was concerned. He always was after you came off the stage. 

Kaz passed you his drink, and you lifted it to your lips and took a sip. The liquid stung on its way down, and you wrinkled your nose. "I'm fine. But I understand why you look so miserable." You pushed the glass back toward him. "That's disgusting."

"But an excellent business tactic," Kaz muttered. "People buy more drinks." He knocked back the rest without flinching and set the glass down with a thump. 

"Any sign of him?" you murmured, lowering your voice and leaning across the table so Kaz could hear. The hair on the back of your neck was prickling uncomfortably, and you felt the weight of unfamiliar eyes on you. "Someone's watching us." You tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear and made a show of placing your chin in your palm and peeking through your eyelashes up at Kaz. You needed to look as unbothered as possible by your audience's attention, which meant putting on your facade again.

For a moment, Kaz didn't realize that you had hinted for him to look around for Gabel. He was distracted by the dancing of the fading candlelight in your eyes, how it cast the shadow of your eyelashes upward, how it illuminated the curve of your lips. They looked soft and tinted red from the lipstick you wore on stage, and he imagined how warm they felt against his when he dared to kiss you.

There was nothing else in the hall but you and your lips and his thoughts spinning in a million directions.

He blinked, breaking from his trance. He blamed the sweltering heat of the building for the heat rising in his cheeks as he looked around for the eyes he could now feel on him. Nobody caught his attention at first, and then he saw a figure across the hall. The man was leaning against a dented, grimy wall and watching you too closely for your comfort.

You followed Kaz's icy, suddenly furious gaze to the man in a poorly-tailored suit that didn't match and was most likely stolen. His watch was clearly fake, and his jewelry had an artificial glimmer. His gang, if you could call it that, was barely above water; you could tell from his poor attempt at looking flashy and put together, as Per Haskell or Pekka Rollins had before being ousted.

"I'll get him alone," you whispered. You moved to slide from your seat, but Kaz's cane pressed against the top of your shoe to keep you still. Your eyes flicked to him, and you raised a brow. "Kaz?"

"No," Kaz said firmly. "You've done enough."

The mere thought of you being alone with him, even long enough for Kaz to trail the two of you and land a strike on Gabel, infuriated him. He knew why the man was looking at you and could guess what was running through his mind. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the man hoped he had a chance with you. Kaz didn't want to put you at risk.

"If you approach him, he'll bolt," you argued. You nudged Kaz's cane off your foot and turned to face him again. You plastered on a sweet smile like you weren't disagreeing with him about how best to neutralize the man practically salivating across the room. With luck, it would only appear that you were trying to convince him to pass over enough kruge for you to pay for another set of dances on stage. You hoped it was convincing.

"If you approach, he'll think it's his lucky night," Kaz ground out between his teeth. His fingers twitched around the top of his cane. What he would give to hit him hard enough to see stars. Or the Saints above. "You've done enough," he repeated, softer this time. He could see you itching to shed your act of seductive showgirl as soon as possible. He refused to ask for any more of it from you.

You sighed deeply. There was no arguing with Kaz. "What's your plan to approach him without scaring him off? Would you like to borrow my dress?"

Kaz glared at you. "Funny."

"Red's not your color anyway." Your lips twitched with a smile, and you turned your gaze to the stage. You thought back to your view of the entire building, a cramped, dilapidated theatre. The first floor was where the musicians used to sit and play; the second contained a semicircle of private boxes where the rich would sit, smoke, and indulge in their vices during the plays happening below.

It was the perfect place to go unnoticed or gather attention.

You leaned forward again, and Kaz raised a brow at your invasion of his space. "I have an idea," you murmured. You slipped your fingers into your hair and retrieved a sparkling pin. Leaning forward until your face was mere inches from Kaz's, you dropped it into his gloved palm. Shimmering, obvious bait you hoped the target would take. "There's an empty box upstairs," you whispered. Keenly aware of the unwelcome eyes on you, you looked up through your eyelashes again at Kaz. "Fourth door."

Kaz had to remind himself to keep breathing as you stood up and walked toward the stairs to the second floor. He could still smell your perfume and the product Nina had helped put in your hair before you left for the job; beneath that, something intoxicatingly you. His head spun, and he forced himself to stand and follow, closing his fingers around the hairpin you'd deposited in his palm.

Saints, this was a bad idea. He was too distracted to figure out what plan you were concocting. All he could think about was you. Your lips, your eyes, how you were thinking so quickly on your feet about how to eliminate Gabel. You were his match sculpted by some divine presence: his intellectual equal, a beautiful drug that appealed to every instinct he thought had drowned with Kaz Rietveld in the harbor.

Ketterdam had underestimated you, but it brought you to him. For once, he couldn't curse the city for something.

He followed you up the stairs and into the private box, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind muddled by the burning hairpin in his hand. Distantly, he sensed that the two of you were being followed. Your plan, no doubt.

Right, yes. The plan you had.

The private box was small, with a row of two seats in the front and a row of three on a step just above that. The upholstery was covered in grime and dirt from lack of maintenance since the theatre's abandonment, and the wooden arms of the chairs were rotten and crumbling. 

You were perched on the step between the two rows of seats, tugging on a pair of boots you'd stashed earlier. You'd also pulled on trousers and tucked the short dress into them, making your outfit more comfortable and functional.

"Are we killing him or just scaring him?" you asked, pulling a knife from the hidden inner pocket of your coat as you tugged it back on over your new outfit. "I think roughing him up would get the point across nicely. I'd hate to get too much blood on this coat." 

"That would be a shame," Kaz managed to answer. He handed you your pin and watched you slip it back into your hair. He took a position by the door, hoping the distance would help him focus. "Scare him first."

You nodded and settled in the least grimy seat. Slow footsteps creaked up the stairs, followed by long pauses between each step. The man hoped to go unnoticed and unheard, likely to ambush the two of you as you supposedly indulged in each other.

You twirled your knife across your knuckles, listening to the footsteps approach down the carpeted hall. Kaz gripped his cane tighter and pressed himself flat against the wall, using the shadows to his advantage. He adjusted his grip and raised it, ready to bring it down.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, and you plastered on your sweetest smile. But your fingers were curled around the hilt of your blade, and it glittered with the promise of violence. Such a contrast from the sparkling, luxurious diamonds in your hair earlier, which promised only pleasure.

The door creaked open, and Pieter Gabel stepped into the trap. His lips curled into a smug smirk as he saw you all alone, and an oily strand of hair dropped onto his forehead. He reeked of alcohol and pride, but you maintained your facade as he leaned against the doorway. "Didn't take you up on your offer for a dance, did he?"

Kaz stiffened behind the door, his muscles coiled to strike. 

You looked Gabel up and down as if seriously considering his presence as an alternative. Really, you were searching his form for weapons. But he was arrogant and unchallenged thus far; he didn't think the Dregs would come for him so soon. 

He was making this too easy.

"He got a better offer from someone else," you said, lifting your shoulders in a delicate shrug. Behind the door, Kaz wrinkled his nose. There wasn't an offer in the world that could tempt him away from you.

You pretended not to notice Kaz's disgust and inspected your nails instead. "Hoping to take his place?" You felt as though you were about to vomit. On stage, it was easy enough to focus only on Kaz and pretend he was the only one watching. But with only this man's gaze crawling over your face, you felt like you were back to your showgirl days: exploited and barely scraping by.

Breathe.

"Perhaps." Pieter shrugged off his ill-fitting topcoat and tossed it to the floor. You nearly gagged on the smell of alcohol wafting off of it, and it took most of your self-control to stay unaffected as he prowled closer. "I'll pay for your next set." He nudged the door shut behind him.

In his inebriated state, he was unaware of the dangerous presence behind him, whose eyes lit up with fury as the target moved toward you. He was only a foot away.

I am not a puppet, you thought. I am in control. With one flick of your wrist, your dagger could be buried beneath his ribs. His blood would seep out, and he'd be nothing more than a man who failed to make Ketterdam know his name. In hours, the city would move on; the dancers would leave, and his followers would scatter and be absorbed into other gangs.

You held this man's fate in your palms, and he didn't even know it. The thought morbidly reassured you. 

Kaz saw the decision flicker through your eyes and took a silent step forward. But he didn't strike, watching as you slipped out of your seat and rounded it, revealing the dangerous glimmer of your dagger.

"I have a better offer," you said, twirling the blade in your hand. 

Gabel paled, and some semblance of understanding and fear passed through his bloodshot eyes. He stumbled back to put some distance between you, and Kaz was ready. He brought his cane down on the back of one of his knees, making the man grunt and fall forward.

You brought your foot down on his hand as he caught himself, and a wicked rush of satisfaction ran through you as the bones snapped beneath your weight. He cried out and went to grab your ankle with his unbroken hand, but you kicked it aside as Kaz swung the crow's head of his cane downward. 

Gabel roared in pain and hunched forward, covering the gash in his temple with his crooked, bruising fingers. Blood seeped between them and down the side of his pale face, and it started to drip onto the carpeted floor.

A heartbeat later, Kaz shoved Gabel's hands away from his face and hooked his cane horizontally across the man's throat. Kaz hauled the man back so he was forced to look up at you. He choked on the wood pressing against his windpipe and fought against the gloved hands holding him in place, and Kaz pulled his cane back to cut off the rest of his air. Gabel's eyes bulged, and he tried to pull the weapon away from his throat; it was no use, and Kaz nodded for you to speak.

"It's my understanding that you think you have a chance at filling the power vacuum left by Pekka Rollins," you said. Gabel's eyes darted away from you as you advanced, and you positioned the tip of your blade against the corner of his eye. It nicked the skin, and blood dripped down his cheek like a gruesome red tear. His gaze turned back to you. "Unfortunately, you treaded too closely into the Dregs' territory and threatened our business. Kaz Brekker is willing to forgive it on three conditions. Wheeze if you're listening."

Gabel let out a barely audible noise of confirmation.

"Good," you said. You held up a finger. "One, you leave the Barrel. Two, you liquidate your possessions here before you leave. And three, you give that money to your dancers and your grunts." The last point was solely your idea; you hadn't discussed it with Kaz, but it was important enough that you would risk his anger at not being informed first. 

You wanted to give the dancers and grunts the choice to get out. It would give them power over their fate you didn't have when you were on that stage.

You pressed the edge of your dagger against the underside of Gabel's chin, watching his lips turn blue. "Do we have a deal?

Kaz loosened his grip on his cane, and Gabel gasped for air. "Speak," he said quietly. There was no shortage of danger in his voice, and Kaz kept his cane braced just tight enough against the man's throat that he couldn't get out of this. There was only one answer available to Gabel if he wanted to live.

"Fuck you," Gabel wheezed.

It was a poor choice.

"I'm going to let you try that again," you hissed. Kaz tightened his grip on the cane again as your blade parted skin. Blood oozed down the metal, and you stopped when the cut was just deep enough for him to understand you were serious. Gabel writhed, trying to fight free. But you hadn't pulled your dagger away, and he only succeeded in cutting himself deeper. "Do. We. Have. A. Deal?"

Gabel finally nodded as best he could with the wooden cane in his way.

You pulled back. "Wonderful." You sheathed your knife inside your coat and met Kaz's gaze. "He's all yours."

Kaz released Gabel, who slumped to the side and clutched his throat. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, but it contracted sharply when Kaz brought the blunt end down on his ribcage. Gabel howled in pain and curled his legs to his chest. "You close today, and the dancers get their money by the end of the week," Kaz growled. "If my Dregs see your face on this side of the East Stave, she," he jerked his chin toward you, "will not be so kind again. And when she's finished with you, I'll ensure nobody finds your body."

He lifted his cane from Gabel's chest and held his hand out to you. You took it, and Kaz led you out of the trap you'd set, down the stairs, and out of the theatre, leaving the sultry music and spluttering excuse of a gang leader behind you.

The two of you moved quickly back into Dregs territory, and Kaz kept his hand around yours the whole time. You waited to speak until you were sure nobody was following, and your shoulders remained tense until your surroundings looked familiar again.

Once the Slat was in view, you glanced up at Kaz. "Do you think he'll actually do it?" you asked. You squinted in the early dawn light. Between the buildings, the sun was beginning to rise; you'd been gone longer than you thought.

"If he has any sense of self-preservation, he will," Kaz answered. He looked down at you, and he evaluated your face. He recognized the worried set of your lips, how you seemed to be waiting for something. "You didn't think I'd follow through on the conditions you set."

"I knew you'd follow through, but I thought you'd be upset I didn't discuss it first." You knew Kaz would never deny anyone their freedom. You just knew he didn't like being left in the dark.

You followed Kaz into the sleepy, abandoned Slat and up the long flights of stairs to his room. Along the way, you shed your coat and threw it over your arm, itching to get out of your dress as soon as possible. Now that you were out of the theatre and back in your domain, you were reminded that you were free. You had control. There was no reason you had to stay in the costume or wear one ever again.

Once in his attic room, you tossed your coat over the rickety chair in the corner and helped yourself to one of his spare undershirts while he sat on the edge of his bed and removed his gloves. You could feel his eyes on you as you untucked the short dress from your pants and pulled it over your head, revealing the skin of your back. Kaz saw the physical scars of years past, visible now in the yellow-orange of the sunrise. He wanted to trace them and kiss the ones along your spine.

He wanted to remind you that you were free and apologize for you playing this role, even though those days should be behind you.

Unaware of his thoughts, you pulled the shirt over your head to conceal most of your scars and turned to face Kaz. He dropped his gaze to his shoes, starting to loosen the laces.

You crossed the room and sat beside Kaz. For a moment, you were silent, figuring out what to say. How to tell him how much his support meant. "Thank you," you finally whispered. It felt as if your scars were floating to the surface of your skin for only him to see. Some bubbled up your throat and past your lips, making you flush as you spoke. "For a long time, I wished I had a choice. I hope that the money gives them a choice. I hope that the ones who want to get out can, and I hope the ones who stay use the money however they want. I don't want them to end up like how I was until I joined the Dregs."

A puppet controlled at the whims of others.

"Don't thank me," Kaz said quietly. "You helped them. You gave them what you didn't have in their position and finished the job. As long as the job is over and you're unharmed." He took your hand in his again and laced your fingers together. His gaze met yours, and you saw an unexpected seriousness in his eyes. "You're alright?"

"I'm alright," you said softly. There was residual coldness from being on stage, from having to step into those shoes for even one set of songs, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. You had given the dancers and grunts of the former gang the means to escape the Barrel if they chose, and you secured the Dregs for now. 

Protecting the Dregs was a violent cycle of blood, ambushes, fighting, and temporary security. But if some good came out of it and the past you couldn't erase, maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world. You had some security. You had control over your future.

And you had Kaz, who would be damned if he let Ketterdam take either of those things from you. He'd reduce the city to rubble if it meant keeping the fire in your eyes that he had seen when you first joined the Dregs; then, it was a spark, a hint of what could be. Now, it was an inferno that Kaz would gladly let consume him.

Kaz leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. Nausea twisted in his stomach, and Kaz had to pull his hand out of yours to bear the feeling of his lips on your skin. Still, you smiled and let your eyes slip shut as he somehow said exactly what you needed to hear, what soothed the aching in your chest as the painful memories of a few years ago threatened to make themselves at home.

"Get some rest," he murmured. "I'll get rid of the costume."

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