#the clash at the coliseum

[howeaboutthatrace]

Howe About That Race? The Clash at the Coliseum

The NASCAR Cup Series season is unofficially underway thanks to the second of running of The Clash at the Coliseum in Los Angeles. I’m Jonathon Howe and I ask, Howe About That Race?

Since this is the first edition of this series, let’s talk a little bit about what you can expect from Howe About That Race? Well, as a big fan of racing, pretty much anything with an engine and 4 wheels, (sorry Moto GP fans, maybe you’ll get me on board this year), deserves discussion. My goal is to watch as many races this season as I can and talk about them in this space. NASCAR, IndyCar, Formula 1 are the main things I will be watching but given the fact I work as a commentator at my local dirt track, Merrittville Speedway, I’m sure we’ll mix in some dirt talk as well. We are going to review races from current seasons, and maybe even watch some old races via live stream. I’ll offer some takes, listen to yours, and hopefully we can all have fun talking about fast cars, big stars, and good clean racing.

Back to The Clash, NASCAR’s experiment with a purpose-built temporary racetrack inside the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. The first year of this pre-season event was tame. It was the first race with the NEXT Gen Cup car, and it came when most teams were still working through a parts shortage. Rather than teams building their own parts pieces to assemble a race car, these Cup cars are now vendor cars, with each team buying the same parts and pieces, creating a spec series of sorts. Well, the concept is good and has increased parity in the series, it affected last year’s event.

            Teams and drivers really took it easy in The Busch Light Clash last year. They had to, they wreck their cars, they may not have enough to race in the coming weeks. Plus, it was the first race, they didn’t know what to expect from the cars. How they would drive, how a sequential gear box would work, how a rack and pinion steering setup would handle a quarter mile track, the shortest on the schedule, etc. etc. Flash forwards a year, the parts shortage is over, a lot of questions about this new car have been answered and the drivers were prepared to put on a show.

            Let’s start with the heat racing. I think heat racing is a fun added element to NASCAR Racing, one I’d like to see in some regular season events. Get rid of stages at short tracks and give out bonus points for a top 3 finish in a heat. Something like that I think would be welcomed by the NASCAR crowd. The 25 lap Heat races came with a different added pressure, only the top 5 made the big show, with other drivers in the heats needing to race their way in via Last Chance Qualifier races. That led to some great desperation moves for final transfer spots and hard racing. The incident where Ricky Stenhouse Jr., Chase Elliott and Kevin Harvick all traded blows, resulting in Harvick driving underneath both in the final corner and beating Elliott to the line for the final transfer position was a highlight for sure, only made possible the added element of heat racing. I thought the heats were fun, and I figured the use of the chrome horn was only out of necessity.

            After the field was set, the sun set and a full moon rose over the California sky, which any short track racing fan knows the race is bound to be chaotic. It certainly was. While the first 75 laps were mostly tame with only a few cautions, we did get the sense that this year’s Clash was different. Drivers pushed the limits of the cars, pushed themselves, and a lot of times had to push each other out of the way to make passes. That gave me some vintage Bristol and Martinsville vibes. Except with the new composite bodies on NASCAR Cup cars are a lot tougher, so we didn’t get the attrition those vintage short track races produced. Toyota drivers like Denny Hamlin, Bubba Wallace, and Martin Truex Jr. showed that they came much better prepared for short track racing this season. Kyle Busch, now in the number 8 Chevy for Richard Childress also had an impressive first half.

The second half of the race was where the full moon chaos really took place. Multiple drivers found themselves pointing the wrong direction after contact in the corners. Most of the races 16 cautions came in the second half of the race. Ryan Blaney, Kyle Busch, Kevin Harvick and Bubba Wallace were all victims of what Joey Logano via Denny Hamlin might describe as “just short track racing”. The final restart came with 7 laps to go, and leader Martin Truex Jr. used the inside line to hold off the duo of Austin Dillon and Busch, who drove back through the field after getting turned by Joey Logano with 65 laps to go. Ryan Preece showed strength leading late before a fuel pump problem dropped him back a few places. Alex Bowman was also impressive in the second half of the Busch Light Clash finishing fourth.

            So, with all that I ask, How About That Race? For me, I was entertained. While the almost comical number of cautions hampered my feelings, the racing was still better than last year’s event. Cars could move through the field if they had the set up right. It even seems like there was a second line coming in. The event is a spectacle and while the concerts weren’t exactly my cup of tea, the Busch Light Clash at Coliseum has become a must watch event and if there are future events at the Coliseum, be it exhibition or as a points race, it would be on my radar to attend. And with that I now ask you, How About That Race?

[marian-1122]

The Clash at the Coliseum, Harlesden, London, 11th March , 1977 .

©️ Julian Yewdall/Getty Images

[lobsterenthusiastt]

nascar is so good when you don't have an mf in your ear telling you the sport is dead every five minutes

[rosalind-hawkins]

Yami Yugi: "Our past is what makes us who we are!"

Seto Kaiba: "Whatever."

My husband: "AAAAAAHHHHHHH YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS BETTER THAN ANYBODY!"

[trulyumai]

Be My Distraction

pairing: emperor geta / wife! reader

Synopsis: Bloodshed wasn't in your interest. good thing you had your emperor there to comfort ill feelings.

Warnings: blood, violence, fighting.

Enjoy!

You’ve been married for eight months and twenty three days. It was rough in the beginning— to be belittled so easily and forgotten within every moment the two of you spent together. 

But over time, the jokes, the pradling eased. He didn't grab you as much, or as roughly as he once did. The scratches, the bruises faded with time, no more did they grace your cheeks, your arms. 

You learned early on that the man craved violence— sought it out in the coliseums every so often. Blood didn't seem to bother the emperor, in fact, the more that the maroon color graced his presence, the better. 

You, however, could do without. 

It was so hot- so stuffy that day. Humidity clung to your skin like an unwanted sickness. Sweat dabbed at your brow as you tirelessly fanned at your face, sitting just beside Geta himself. The crowd was ever so loud, jovially crying out, impatient for the show to begin. 

The emperor sat, knees spread with an arm bent on the rest attached to the chair. 

“This will be a good one,” Beside him, his brother; Caracalla hummed in agreement, giggling at the aggressive pushes and shoves the citizens gave to one another. 

You couldn't imagine how hot it must be down there, so close to the pit. 

Even up in the stands, you thought you might melt. 

“Wife, did you hear me?” 

Flinching you looked back at Geta, meeting his intense gaze upon your form. 

“W-What?” 

“I said, are you ready to be entertained?” 

The movement in your hand stopped, it was useless trying to fight such a heat. Not wasting a breath you answered. 

“Of course, husband.” 

Smiling, the man stood and raised his arms to the citizens. Screams erupted, they cried out in response to the man of such power, of such terror. 

With his arms back at his sides; the signal was given. 

The fight could commence. 

Roughly turning back to the box, Geta sat upon the edge of the throne, waiting to see the first death of the match. 

Not wanting to disappoint him, you stood straight, facing the clashing of swords, the crying of men. A particular soldier had ill timing with his slash, missing his foe entirely. It left him open for a second, but that was all the time that was needed. With a quick slash, the man's entrails dangled from his stomach, painting the ground a bright red. 

It was unbearable to see such a display of violence, to see these men's lives end right before your eyes. 

Your palm met with the skin of your lips, afraid of the rising bile you covered your mouth tightly, eyes gazing over with wet desperation. 

A distraction— you needed one and quick. How embarrassing would it be for the wife of the emperor to throw up her morning meal? 

In front of her own citizens? 

Nothing was working, the sounds, the clashing was too loud. The blood littered the field, running freely over the crevices with its own dirtied purpose. 

Your breathing was beginning to be too fast, too quick to catch up with. 

Think, think, think- 

“Wife?” 

Oh gods. Not now. You couldn't take the poking, the showing of bodies that lay limp and torn. 

Geta noticed the desperation in your eyes, the way you squeezed your mouth shut like a tragedy just struck before the coliseum.

“Wife. Look.” 

“Geta please-” 

A hand reached out, a mirage of colors graced your vision. 

His hand? 

His.. rings? 

“Oh…” you sighed, reaching out with both hands to grip onto the bigger one in front of you. 

“New rings?” you smiled. The bile no longer burned the back of your throat, with ease it bubbled down and the taste of your previous meal left instantly. 

“Indeed. See this one?” His pinky moved lightly, it moved up and down meticulously.

You nodded and the jewelry around your neck sounded out. The man couldn’t help but look upon it, with a smile of his own. 

The golden chain you wore, decorated in the finest stones lay about your image, resting just above your collarbones. He remembered gifting it to you not long ago, just upon the third full moon of this month's harvest. 

Your touch brought him back to the present. To your sweating form.

“This one brings good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” 

“Mmh,” he agreed, once more setting his eyes on the show in front of him. 

Couldn’t show everyone how soft he could be with his betrothed. His reign would lose its footing; a weakness she brought, they would say to him.

“What would you need that for, dear husband, when you have so much already?”

He could see you from the corner of his eye. Saw the way you stroked at his fingers with a light- loving touch. 

Your hands were much softer than his, he had to resist letting out a pleased sigh at such a discovery. 

“There can always be more.” He spoke low, distracted by the onslaught of men that paraded around the ground floor. 

“...I suppose.” The nausea was replaced with a wave of comfort. His heavy hand sat atop your lap, with your smaller fingers dancing across the new set of rings upon the man's digits. 

“Husband?”

Geta hummed. With no response, it meant he was starting to get impatient, itchy with anger. 

“Can I hold your hand here, for a while?” 

The emperor didn't say anything for a concerning amount of time. The comfortability was wearing off with every scream and groan that left the pit. Swords clashed on and on. 

Not wanting to upset your husband further, you tried to back up, to take the words out of the air. 

“Im sorry, forgive me-” 

“I suppose.”

Geta’s eyes never strained from the fighting and yours never left his image. But even from the side, you could see a softness that wasn't there before. The way his hand relaxed against yours. Ever so rough upon your oiled and cared for palms. 

That was all that needed to be said. 

You watched on, caressing Geta’s hands every so often in unspoken affection. 

A/N: we love a man that can calm down his wife with barely any effort. something about big scary men being soft with their wife has me in a chokehold and im sorry

[inknopewetrust]

𝐆𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠

When the Emperor summons you, you always answer the call. [Emperor Geta x Fem!Reader] [wc: 3.38k]

Warnings: minors DNI, smut, 18+, slight exhibition kink, pinv sex, unprotected sex (this is Ancient Rome, whores), Geta be a little submissive and possessive, corruption, dirty talk. I do not take responsibility for satan causing me to write this.

When you were summoned to the coliseum after dark, there was no questioning what be the cause.

The corridors of the great arena were near silent; distant growls and scratching claws filled its catacombs with a crawling anticipation: when the Emperor called, world at his feet quieted to hear his presence. Feeling the sands of the stage shift and meet the seats of the empty audience, there was nothing but the moonlight and wind to greet you.

You were not alone in Rome’s greatest achievement. The ghosts of the gladiators watched over the wicked as they fed off the suffering of the poor.

But when the guard left you to your devices upon the imperial seat looking over the arena, you forgot the evil that took over the man who called.

“It is quite the sight, no?”

In the silence of the amphitheater Geta’s words were quiet yet threatened to bounce off in echos. You ran your hands over the marble ledge. It’s once smooth nature lifting in bumps every inch of the glide your hand made. A gust of wind fluttered the fabric of your chiton to dance around your legs.

Geta dismissed his most loyal guard at the sight of you.

“It is different in the light,” you answered. The sand below you was not stained of blood and there was no chanting of what the Gods would decide of fate. “Peaceful… if I dare say.”

“If you were not to speak freely I would not have let my men go.”

“So there is no fear to be had here?” You turned your head over your shoulder. Barely capturing him in your vision, Emperor Geta leaned against his brother’s seat. The edge of the stone resting his body as his eyes traced you against the backdrop of his arena.

“There is no one to fear, my lady,” he spoke.

Emperor Geta was a man you had known for a long while. As children he often sought you out as a companion of play while his father helped prime himself and his brother, Caracalla, for their ascent to the throne. You, on the outskirts of royalty within a wealthy family of semi-relevant status to the Caesar, were allowed in their court as a potential wife.

The status of wife never came but it did not stop Geta from perusing you into adulthood.

It was on nights like these when the clouds floated to cover the moon and the poor laid soundly on the gravel on the outset of the building that Geta felt a need to see you, to have you for himself before the reality of morning came tumbling upon him. Weakened by his thoughts of want and bruised from a victory turned sour, his eyes shimmered in the darkness while the necessity grew.

But you knew the intent.

The one guard, never different from the last, summoning you from your villa with a coded message of: vi et animo, with heart and soul. Descend upon the place where he shall be waiting and when the act is done, as always, the same guard would see you home and little would be said between the next occasion. An invitation to sit behind him at a fight always went unanswered; the feasts in a Senator’s name would go uneaten.

You always had something to fear when a man, whom you had grown to be so utterly conflicted in lust and hatred, reigned unfairness from his palace on top a hill. The shining city of Rome was not what it once was but Geta cared for nothing except what he wanted.

And while you never accepted the invitations beyond these, the jewels around your neck, the ones that hung from your ears, and the pulsing of your heart spoke wonders for the truth within you.

Geta watched as your head turned back around and your hands curled over the balcony’s edge. His fingers rapped against the back of the chair; rings clashing against the golden adornments at the bristle of your objection.

“What summons me here?” You prompted. “Are the others not enough for you? Do they not fill your cup on nights as brutal as these?”

You were not to call the women he sought whores. They made their choices, or, they had none, but their actions did not relegate themselves to lesser. How were you any better than them? With your gold and your home and your money? You believed yourself, on the worst of nights, to be a wealthier version of what they had been subject to but unlike many of them, you let this linger beyond the reasonable time.

“I wish to think you know better than to question the call of your Emperor. You showed, after all.”

“I do not question your wants… what keeps you ticking,” you turned to rest your back away from the arena. Geta admired the wrap of your gown tightening against the stone. “You should be celebrating the conquering. Rome has just expanded. There is a celebration at the palace and yet you are here amongst the prisoners and the animals.”

“And you,” he looked pointedly.

Geta’s makeup was gone from the day. He wore a tunic of red and white with the golden laurels weaved in its fabric. The orange of his hair had gone muted in the dark.

“And me,” you agreed. “You have me here, Caesar—“

“Geta.”

You eyed him.

“Why are you playing a game tonight? You denied my invitation—“

“It is not my place,” you cut in. “I am no wife, I am not a… woman of a man’s delight. I did not wish to be an object on an arm.”

“I could have your head for such an implication,” he warned.

“You wouldn’t,” you affirmed. “No one else would be dragged here to kneel before you so willingly.”

“You want to be on your knees?”

You shook your head at him with a tick. No one would dare to speak to him like you. But you knew it bothered him in ways he couldn’t manifest. The blood rushing through his body—you challenged him in a way only he would allow you.

Geta removed his arm from the back of the seat and stepped down to you. Each step closer and closer until he came to rest directly in front of you and caged you like the animals below. Arms expanding on either side of you; his breath invading your space as his nose nicked yours. You shuddered; back piercing into the travertine not in fear but anticipation.

To be the lover of a corrupted Emperor… you had him in the palm of your hand.

“You speak so freely,” he hissed. “And yet you tremble in my presence.”

In an instant, your breathing had gone staggered. His hands drew into you. Feeling up the sides of your body as he pushed himself on you.

“The tremble is not you. It’s me.”

“I am the only one to make you feel this way, yes?”

His hands roamed freely. Geta’s thumbs rumbled up the fabric of the front of your body while his fingertips hardened against you. The plushness of your skin was melting to him. His nose tipped against your chin to turn your head upwards.

“Your Emperor asked you a question.”

“If I said no,” you breathed in as his fingers groped harder. They cupped your breasts from above and back down again. “What would become of me?”

“I’d lock you away,” he wouldn’t. “I’d see to you myself in the cells below the palace. You’d wear nothing,” you scoffed and his lip quirked up. You could feel his lips change against the column of your neck. “And when people would ask of you, they would not be allowed to see you.”

“So you would not want them to see us like this?”

He let out a low, bemused chuckle. “This is for me, us, to enjoy. But if you imagine the whole of Rome watching us, then please, my dear, listen to them.”

Geta rose his lips to your ear as his hands fell to your hips and then one of your legs. He maneuvered to grip the back of one of your thighs and opened up space for him to fall further into you. You could feel his excitement; the prodding of his want against your clothed self. His hot breath and lips danced across your cheek.

“Can you hear them? Gasping at the sight of you. It is the most beauty they have ever seen. So wet and glistening for their ruler.”

“And what of their Emperor?” Your hand came to clutch the extra fabric of his chest. His heart under your hand was picking up in paces. Beating against his ribcage while his eyes blew lustful.

“They should see their Emperor on his throne,” you commanded.

He dropped your leg and with a push from your hand on his chest, Geta stepped backwards until you pushed him to meet his throne. The seat wide for his liking, he sat upon it and grasped at the loose fabric of your dress at your hips.

“Further.” He pushed himself further back into the seat. Using the small step at the base of Geta’s seat, you lifted yourself onto him with your knees on either side.

“While he’s on his throne,” you let him pool the fabric into his hands and draw it upwards. You sat atop him and relished the way you could feel him grown underneath. “They shall see his weakness.”

“I do not have a weakness,” he growled, one hand clasping the back of your neck and forcing your face an inch from his own. You rolled your hips on him. His fingers adjusted the grip on the back of your neck and he hesitated. “I-I do not have a weakness.”

“Then what am I here for?” You asked against his lips and through his hesitancy, he gazed into your eyes before capturing his lips with yours. You sucked in a breath; cupping his head with both of your hands in strength.

Your fingers raked through his hair with a tug as his lips refused to separate themselves form yours. So desperate in want, he clutched himself on to you and your tongues melted together as one the longer he held you. One of his hands pulled on your dress and moved you forward, then tugging backwards to encourage you to grind above him. You needn’t a command to roll your body onto his.

Where your core rested on him, his erection formed against his tunic. You lined up, dragging yourself along the length of him and back. He pulled his lips away with a tug on your bottom lip. Geta bunched up your dress and watched as your cunt glided as best it could along his clothes. Each thrust painting the fabric a shade deeper he could see even in the night.

He was mesmerized. Entranced by your body—no different than the times he had taken you in the light or dusk of a day. You pussy glistened in the moonlight. Dripping with ecstasy as you only felt the outline of his cock above the thin piece that separated you.

Geta, annoyed the the amount of fabric that was your gown and released it roughly.

“Take it off,” he ordered. You huffed, unfurling it from the ties in on the side and letting it fall to the step below. Fully nude on his throne, his hands groped your ass to kiss you again.

“What of you?”

Geta simply pulled up the tunic on his chest and his cock sprung up in response. “You should know conscience now.”

“Us women do not see the same pleasures,” you meant in the form of clothing being simply. Geta quirked his head to the side and leaned it back against his seat.

He sat an awkward angle but was semi-sitting up with you on top of him. You lifted on your knees and palmed at his member with purpose. Remembering the lines and curve like the stones outside of your home, you pumped him as a grunt left his throat.

“I see that you do.”

“Not that anyone would know,” you snided.

Again, he furrowed his brows. “Do you want people to see? All of Rome to see what a woman of your stature does to me?”

“They don’t need to see, Geta,” you sighed and moved up on him. “If you wish to take a wife, that is already implied.”

“You are far too beautiful to be a wife. You are a goddess.”

“Who can only be sought in darkness.”

“That is when you come alive,” his eyes closed at the feel of his tip at the entrance of you. Moving back and forth along your slit while the wetness gathered to make his intrusion easier. The pull of your walls making room for him as you sunk down to take him whole; the claw of your fingernails into his chest at the sensation.

Your knees dug into the harshness of the chair as its girth, and his own, sent you ascending. Your back arched as his fingertips drove goosebumps along your spine. You started grinding on his cock slowly. Clit rubbing against his pubic bone, gently caressing your most sensitive bit as he gripped your hips tightly. You looked down at him prompting his stare to reach through you. It grabbed your soul and reminded you of all the reasons you kept answering his call.

Geta filled you completely. The stretch of him long and wide, your hands fell back to his knees and propelled you as you bounced on him the best your body could. He trusted up to you as the matched inside of you both struck hot and heavy. The burn of your body, the pulse of heat between your legs grew while the slick of your arousal coated his dick every time you sunk back down.

His hands bruised. They tightly gripped you as though you would slip away into the darkness should he let go. He needed to feel you in more ways than one. The digging of your nails into his skin transposed by the burn of his palms on your waist, hips, thighs, and wherever else they could touch.

“Look at you,” he praised breathlessly. “A God to a King.”

A Venus of Rome.

“My Venus,” Geta cut between his teeth. “Mine.”

His own pace superseded your own. Geta’s hips snapped up, racing a high that hit him like Cupid’s own bow straight to the heart. His pace was parading his strength he did not often show beyond words and measures. Your hands failed you on his knees and forced you forward.

Geta grabbed at your jawline, hand crushing your chin.

“You are mine,” he repeated. “No other man shall have you—as a wife nor lover.”

Your silence maddened him. He was relentless in his mission to send you to the edge. You could barely catch your breath and your chest, naked as the day you were born, rose and fell rapidly as the faint sheen of sweat washed over you.

“Do you understand me?” Geta stopped his movements and your shoulder jolted uncontrollably. He was the only one who had ever sent your body’s muscles into overdrive.

“Yes,” you nodded with his hand still grasping your jaw. “Yes, Geta.”

His eyes flicked back and forth between your own. You were truthful even if you hated him some days.

“Good,” he agreed with his own nod. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around,” Geta ordered again. “Your Emperor commands you.”

He released your jaw dismissively and let his hands fall beside his legs. You lifted yourself from him with a shiver and maneuvered yourself front facing. The arena before you, the empty spectator seats still viewing you freely in coitus. Geta’s hands roamed over your ass and up your back as you turned. He grasped himself at the base of his cock and lined up his head to you again.

“Come down,” he commanded.

You joined together as one again and you were quick to realize you had no bearings. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to support you except what little resistance your knees could gather against the harsh seat.

As though Geta could read your mind, he drew you back. He leaned you all the way against him to where you were nearly laying as though on a bed yet still angled as though lounging on a chaise. The new angle pushed his cock to the sweetest pull, pushing against your plush walls and letting a gasp escape you in turn. Geta smoothed the sides of your body while your feet turned under you and you let your weight lay on him.

He ran over your breasts slowly. Nipples long pebbled, he squeezed the flesh and brought them up before releasing them again. Geta brought his head to incline into yours as he thrusted into you once more.

“I see their jealousy. All of them—“ the non-existent spectators “—wanting to fuck a woman like you. If they saw an Empress so bare, so exposed, what would they do?”

Geta’s tone had become selfish. His pace returned to an unrelenting finish. He pounded into you. Each snap hitting your most pleasured spot perfectly as his hands cradled you and his words filled your mind with him.

“How would they feel seeing their Emperor defile the most exquisite creature that has ever graced Rome?”

“They would all wish to be you,” you admitted. His words of praise hit you as hard as his cock. Your head tossed back onto his shoulder.

“Open your eyes, darling. Head up.”

You did as commanded—like any good subject would do.

“This will be yours,” he guided one of your hands into his and brought them both to your bud as the other wrapped around your waist. With his finger atop yours, he helped circle your clit as his end was near.

“This land, Rome, can be ours. Just ours.”

That was, if he would ever be given permission to marry and the match was fixed.

“Gladiators in your name, fighting to see your beauty. Feasts and splendor for the sake of our children…”

The familiar heat in your core began to bubble like the markings of a volcano. You turned your head to his and kissed him deeply at the thought, rubbing your clit furiously with the help of his hand and relishing the way his cock completed your body.

“I will marry you,” Geta reaffirmed as his words caught every second his hips threatened to stutter at his release. “I will marry you I swear to the Gods if it is the last thing I do.”

Maybe you believed him, maybe you did not. Yet you would feel nothing but him and only him and everything he gave you in that moment. The utter devotion and the most raw form of his propensity.

If the night were not already fallen, you saw the waves of Heaven wash over you as the eruption of your orgasm shakes you to the core. The blinding hues of what Venus had brought upon you leaving you gasping for breath. Thoughtless and wordless of promises that carry on with the shaking of your thighs and soft whispers of marriage from his lips. Geta’s own release was missed by you. Mere seconds after your own, he stilled as his hips stuttered into you and the legacy of his spent began to leak beyond where he filled you.

Geta released his hand from your own and rubbed your arms soothingly as you laid heavier on him than before. The wear of your brilliance forging his content sighs. He closed his eyes as your head knocked into his own and the two of you sat there, in the empty arena, alone as one.

“I swear to the Gods,” he assured once more. “I will make you my wife.”

And if the Gods were fair, you would know it to be true. But they have never been fair in the life you knew. So, how could they be true now?

A/N: couldn’t help writing for Geta. The men of gladiator have me in a chokehold. Thanks for reading and while it isn’t required, reblogs and comments help writers the most! ♥️ [not proof read yet]

[iamsherlocked-1998]

SAND AND PROMISES

Warning: Description of wounds, slavery, fighting, difficult relationships at the time. Male x Male.

Words: 1400

Summary: Acacius have his most important Battle.

✿ ----------- ✿ ---------------✿

In the heart of Rome, amid the grandeur and splendor of the great empire, his status stood tall and proud, a symbol of power and authority. As a prestigious general, Acacius's name echoed through the halls of history, a testament to his prowess on the battlefield and his unwavering loyalty.

But behind the facade of the imposing warrior lurked a series of unanswered tribulations, a soul that longed for something more than the thrill of conquest and the reward of victory. And it was at that moment that fate intervened, in the form of a lone man who caught Marcus's eye and caught his attention. He was young and trapped in a long book in the sunlight next to the local agora.

At first glance, the boy was nothing special, a mere footnote to the greatness of Rome and the epic stories of its warriors. But to Marcus, he was something more: a riddle to solve, a mystery to unravel, a heart waiting to be claimed.

As their paths crossed more and more, Marcus was drawn to the scholar's quiet strength and his unbreakable spirit. He marveled at the depth of his insight, the breadth of his knowledge, and the quiet grace with which he carried himself through the tumult of the city.

Soon, the two found themselves united by a shared passion for life, a connection that burned bright and fierce, defying the boundaries of time and class. And in that bond, they discovered a new meaning for the thrill of conquest, a new purpose that transcended aspirations for power and prestige.

Together, they wandered shoulder to shoulder through the streets of Rome, their heartbeats ringing in unison. They shared the joy of abundant festivities and the warmth of close-knit friends, but also the trials and challenges that marked the city's tumultuous history.

That was until one day when he returned from a long trip he couldn't find his partner in any of the places he used to frequent in his predictable routine, it was as if he had vanished and Marcus felt a knot in his stomach.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

After a few months, in the heart of the Colosseum, the deafening roar of the crowd filled the air, mixed with the clash of steel and the screams of combatants engaged in mortal combat. Contrary to the worst predictions of him among the gladiators who graced the arena was himself, a fearsome Roman general who had exchanged his armor for the garb of a warrior, his sword glistening in the sun as he faced his opponents with unwavering determination.

But unbeknownst to viewers, Marcus fought not for glory or honor, but for something far more precious: a chance to win freedom from the only person who had made him feel alive in a long time, a slave bound by the shackles of servitude by the whims of cruel fate. It turned out that weeks after tirelessly investigating, he learned that his companion was sold in a town on the outskirts of Rome as payment for the debts of a father who was too negligent and fond of liquor. He finished off such a subject using a dagger when night fell in the middle of an alley, taking advantage of his drunkenness.

That was not enough since the new owner of his lover made him an offer to cover the losses, use his skills for the macabre spectacle of the coliseum, only then the debt would be settled and he would become a freedman. As the surface of the sand became slick with blood and sweat, Marcus's thoughts drifted to the slave, whose tormented gaze and unspoken longing had lit a fire within him, something that burned brightly with the promise of redemption and salvation.

With each opponent he defeated, Marcus came closer to his goal, each blow fueled by the memory of a fading smile, a soft, fleeting touch, and experiences that now seemed like a distant echo.

But the road to freedom was fraught with danger, tinged with betrayal and deceit. The boy's master, a ruthless noble, watched the battle with contempt, narrowing his eyes maliciously at the thought of losing his prized possession.

As the final battle loomed on the horizon, his entire existence hung precariously on the outcome of the brutal contest that awaited them both. With the weight of what he believed right on his shoulders and the courage of his convictions burning in his heart, he faced his final opponent, a towering gladiator whose strength and skill matched his own.

In a searing duel that echoed in the annals of time, Marcus and his adversary clashed with a ferocity that shook the very foundations of the arena. But it was in the heat of battle that Marcus found his true strength, each of his blows guided by the unspoken vow that bound them together in defiance of all odds.

And in the final, fateful moment, when the dust settled and the victor stood triumphant, he laid aside his sword and turned to the noble who held the boy's fate in his hands. With a voice as firm as steel and a gaze as unwavering as the sun, he demanded the reader's freedom in exchange for his victory, with his unwavering resolve in the face of the specter of defeat. Otherwise, he would shake up the foundations of the empire to take away all of its present and future possessions.

At that moment, the noble relented, his grip on the reader loosening as Marcus stepped forward, arms spread wide in a gesture of release and salvation. And as the chains of his lover fell, his eyes filled with gratitude and wonder, his heart beat with a joy that resonated through any doubt or suffering.

Together, they walked out of the Colosseum, as they gazed at the setting sun, whose rays cast a golden glow over the city of Rome, knowing that what they had was destined to last: a flame that would burn brightly.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ───── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

-You shouldn't have done that…now we are both condemned, we have nowhere to go (the former slave caressed the general's cheek, appreciating his irregular beard with a melancholic smile).

Both had stopped along the way at a dilapidated inn, the only place where they could shelter to sleep and clean up for the moment. The moon had illuminated the space for some time.

The man made a gesture of annoyance, clenching his teeth. His depp voice fulled the little room.

-We've already talked about it, I couldn't leave you there without doing anything, that heartless man would have finished you off.

Acacius sat up with difficulty due to the bruises and scratches of the battle, the thin sheet was removed allowing his athletic body to be observed in all its splendor. Clothes had stopped being important to both of them hours ago.

With his fingers he traced the healed scars on the back of his lover, who lay face down on the smelly, hay-filled mattress.

The young man sighed, trying to control his tears at the softness of the gesture while he nodded.

-We have no possessions but we do have information and I know that there is a place to start over outside of Rome, I know someone who will give us asylum in the meantime and we can get a job. The trip will be long and hard, we have to use a boat and be stowaways, but who we are will no longer matter.

He sat up, joining his lips to those of his savior in a feverish kiss as straddled his lap, his hands drifting to the nape of his neck, feeling the soft curls found there. The options were limited and dark and the path uncertain, but freedom never tasted so good.

[merlucide]

‼️ATTENTION‼️

THE FATED BATTLE BETWEEN @merlucide AND @riririnnnn HAS BEGUN.

‼️GATHER ROUND, GATHER CLOSE! TODAY, WITHIN THESE HALLOWED WALLS OF THE GRAND COLISEUM, AN EPIC CLASH UNLIKE ANY OTHER IS ABOUT TO UNFOLD! BEHOLD AS TWO FIERCE WARRIORS, FROM THE FAR REACHES OF OUR VAST EMPIRE, PREPARE TO ENGAGE IN A BATTLE FOR THE WORTHINESS OF @licoririce KISSES ‼️

our commentators are @someprettyname @soleilonthesun and @bueris

our medics on standby are @kurona-theshark and @sharkissm

our betting clerks are @luvingshidou and @hooudie212

‼️LET THE FIGHT BEGIN‼️

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHH”

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHH”

“HAAAH”

“OOASFH”

“HA!”

“HO”

“HAHAHA!”

“GOOOORAGGG”

”OOOFF”

‼️THE BATTLE IS SO FAR A DRAW?!? WHO WILL WIN??‼️

[anonymousewrites]

Adolescent Antichrist (Book 6) Chapter Fifteen

Father Figure! Lucifer Morningstar x Teen! Reader

Demon! OC x Reader

Chapter Fifteen: Do Something Worthwhile

Summary: Lucifer and (Y/N) fight Michael to begin a new era.

Mouse Note: Only one more chapter to go. I can't believe how far we've come.

            Wham!

            Michael stumbled back. He clutched the Flaming Sword and stared at Lucifer. He had expected him to back off upon seeing the blade that could kill him utterly and completely.

            But Lucifer wasn’t afraid. Or, he was, but anger was stronger than fear. No. Love was stronger. And Lucifer loved (Y/N). Michael couldn’t threaten (Y/N) without Lucifer interfering. He had to protect them, no matter the risk or cost.

            “Dad!” cried (Y/N), trying to move forward. Amenadiel grabbed them and pulled them back since the sword was dangerous.

            Lucifer advanced on Michael, and Michael swung at Lucifer. He ducked and rolled to dodge. He jumped to his feet, and Michael stabbed. Lucifer dodged, but the flames cut through his suit.

            (Y/N) lunged forward again, but Amenadiel held them back.

            “(Y/N), he has to do this on his own,” said Amenadiel.

            “To Hell with that, it’s my dad!” said (Y/N) indignantly.

            Michael chuckled and swung at Lucifer. He leaned back to dodge, but the hilt of the blade hit him, sending him flying. He hit the ground. Michael kicked his stomach, and he rolled over. Lucifer groaned in pain.

            (Y/N) pushed out of Amenadiel’s arms and looked at Zadkiel. “Your staff. Give it to me.”

            Zadkiel didn’t hesitate to hand it over. (Y/N) looked at Lucifer.

            “Dad!” they shouted.

            He looked at them, and (Y/N) tossed it to him. Lucifer caught the staff and blocked another stab from Michael.

            “Oh, ho-ho-ho-ho!” Michael grinned. “My brother has a stick, whatever shall I do?”

            Lucifer headbutted Michael. Michael groaned and stepped back. Lucifer swung the staff and hit him in the side. Michael jumped back and leapt into the air, black wings spread out. Lucifer’s white wings burst from his back, and he jumped after Michael. The battle took to the air.

            “That staff is all that’s left of the tree of life,” said Zadkiel, watching Lucifer with it.

            “Then it should be happy to be fighting for life instead of for death,” said (Y/N).

            “I can’t believe this is what God meant by figuring things out,” said Em. “I don’t think He wanted His children to fight.”

            “Or He was giving them free will,” said Marcel. “And He knew the consequences.”

            “That can’t just be it,” said Olive. “He wouldn’t have left His children to be hurt as His final act.”

            “What if He meant something more in His words?” said Leon, furrowing their brow.

            “Like what?” asked Noa.

            “I don’t know,” said Leon.

            (Y/N) watched Lucifer and Michael anxiously. Each time the sword and staff clashed, sparks flew. (Y/N) couldn’t stand the danger their dad was in. They needed to help him. They knew honor was a whole thing, but if Michael tried to really kill Lucifer, (Y/N) couldn’t just stand there!

            Lucifer flew back as Michael advanced on him. He blocked each stab and swing, but the heat of the blade was immense. He kicked Michael and shoved him back with the staff. The sun shone behind them, and the people below shielded their eyes to watch the figures battle in the air.

            They rose higher and higher into the air above the coliseum as the battle grew more and more dangerous. Each one was fierce in their fighting, vying for victory. Michael wanted his power, and Lucifer wanted his family safe. Neither was willing to give up.

            Around and around, they flew the length of the coliseum. They hit one another, neither gaining much of an advantage as they spun and dodged and slashed. Michael shouted in aggravation and struck over and over. Lucifer grunted as he blocked the attack over and over. He lowered with the hits.

            Michael slashed down, and the staff cracked. He grinned and swung down again. Lucifer blocked, and the staff broke. The force sent Lucifer flying. He struck the ground hard, and the group gasped. Michael landed and stood over him.

            “Goodbye, brother!” Michael raised the Flaming Sword.

            “No!”

            (Y/N)’s wings erupted from their back, and they leapt into the air. They slammed into Michael, and they went flying back together. Michael pushed (Y/N) back and swung. Their powerful wings flapped in the air, and (Y/N) soared up and away from him.

            “Birdie!” shouted Em worriedly.

            “(Y/N)!” cried Lucifer. His wings erupted, and he meant to fly once more, but shadows whipped up and restrained him.

            Other shadows grabbed the rest of the angels and (Y/N)’s friends and family. (Y/N) refused to let anyone they loved get hurt. This was their fight now. They eyed Michael warily, but determination was equally as present in their gaze.

            “You can’t be serious,” sneered Michael, circling them. “I’m got the Flaming Sword. I have the support of Heaven behind me.”

            “You have the fear of Heaven, and your track record against me isn’t that great,” said (Y/N). “So, why don’t we make it 5-0?”

            Michael narrowed his eyes and dove at them. (Y/N) dodged, using the shadows of the coliseum to grab for him. They snagged Michael’s wings, but he swung with the sword. The light cut through the shadows, letting him fly free once more. (Y/N) remained in the shadows, reaching for him as he flew.

            “You can’t defeat me with shadows this time!” jeered Michael. He lifted the flaming sword, and the darkness retreated from him. (Y/N) gritted their teeth. “So unless you want to tear the world apart again, Antichrist, you’re just going to be the first darkness this God destroys!”

            “I’ll never let you be God,” said (Y/N). “Not when your father left me to take care of things, and I said I’d keep things from going to Hell, and that includes stopping you!”

            “As if you have the power,” said Michael, twirling the sword. “Lucifer will never be God.”

            “That doesn’t mean you will be,” said (Y/N), flying straight towards him.

            All the shadows around them dove out with them. They smashed into Michael. Even as he swung and burned the darkness away, (Y/N) slammed into him. Michael went flying, and the cloud of darkness condensed around him. With a roar, Michael exploded out of it, flames flying around the sword. Seeing (Y/N) dart out of the shadows, he dove at them.

            (Y/N) evaded, but as he slashed, the flames burnt at their back. (Y/N) cried out, and their wings faltered. (Y/N) hit the ground, brought back their wings, and rolled. They hit a stop, and the shadows holding their friends and family left.

            “(Y/N)!” cried a worried chorus of voices.

            The moment before anyone could get to them, Michael grabbed them, and (Y/N) was pulled up into the sky. The sun was blinding as he shot upwards.

            “I’m going to teach them all a lesson,” hissed Michael. “You most of all, you presumptuous interloper! You’re still an abomination, and soon you’ll be a goddamned one!”

            (Y/N) grabbed his hands as he forced the blade towards them, and the heat seared at their neck. They cried out as their necklaces burned.

            “Let my child go!”

            Lucifer slammed into Michael, and Michael let go of (Y/N). They plummeted downwards. They let out a scream, startled.

            "(Y/N)!”

            Lucifer dove for them, and they reached up towards him as they tried to get their wings out and to work despite the burns. Their back ached, and the rush of air against the burns made them grit their teeth. Their fingers brushed against Lucifer’s.

            “Dad!” they cried helplessly.

            A dark shadow loomed up over them. Michael was a figure of black, a blot against the sun. He raised the Flaming Sword, and the fire seemed to melt with the sun as (Y/N) watched its power glow. And he brought it down towards Lucifer.

            Crack!

            Red jasper shards exploded around (Y/N)’s neck. Golden light enveloped their vision and the sky.

            Everyone on the ground shielded their eyes in shock. Michael and Lucifer were thrown to the sides and landed awkwardly on the ground. The Flaming Sword went flying through the air, the metal and fire disappearing in the explosion of light.

            When the light died, everyone lifted their gaze apprehensively. Lucifer looked up with pure panic, trying to find (Y/N). Michael groaned and tried to spot the Flaming Sword.

            Everyone found what they were looking for at the same moment.

            Floating in the light of the sunset was an angel. It was (Y/N). A faint golden shimmer still emanated from them as their wings supported them. Their red wings were spread wide, and the sunlight glinted off the golden iridescence of their feathers. The red and gold were like flames behind them as they descended. Real fire flew around their hand as they held the Flaming Sword. The fire seemed stronger and brighter than ever in (Y/N)’s hands. The brightness spread to their black markings that had turned a white-gold color, alight with magic. In fact, power itself radiated from them as they flew gracefully down to the ground.

            They landed and looked at everyone. Their friends, their family, and all the angels stared at them, unsure whether to be relieved, apprehensive, or both.

            (Y/N) took a deep, exhausted breath and looked at everyone. “No. More. Fighting.” They looked at all the angels. “God didn’t want this. He didn’t want you hurting each other, killing each other! He wanted you free to live your lives without His constant supervision and rule. So stop squandering that freedom on fighting.” They glared at everyone. “Do something worthwhile! Find who you are! God left you with freedom, which is way better than power. You can actually use freedom. Stop trying to figure out who His successor is because who really gives a damn who it is—”

            “It’s you.” Lucifer interrupted the rant with two simple words.

            (Y/N) faltered. “What?”

            “It’s you, (Y/N).” Lucifer smiled. “You’re His successor.”

            “I—” (Y/N) looked at their hands and saw the faint golden glow just beneath the surface. “Oh, god. No, no—”

            “(Y/N), He chose you,” said Lucifer. He took their hand and squeezed it. “He chose you.”

            “Take good care of things. Who better than you?” God’s strange final words echoed in their mind. All the odd statements, all the odd looks, all the odd compliments, it all coalesced into one fact—one plan. God’s plan.

            “I’m God’s successor?” breathed (Y/N).

            “Yes,” said Amenadiel. He smiled. “You are.” Amenadiel took a knee.

            “He knew you would take care of things better than we ever could.” Proudly, Lucifer took a knee.

            “We told you to campaign.” Noa took a knee.

            “We get the responsible God in the end.” Olive smiled and bowed.

            “He made a good choice.” Leon.

            “We knew you were the boss.” Marcel.

            “Who knew you’d fly so high, Birdie?” Em smiled lovingly and knelt.

            “I thought there was something significant about you,” said Zadkiel.

            One-by-one, the other people present bowed and took a knee before (Y/N). (Y/N). (Y/N) the Deity of Creation.

            “No!” Michael glared at them. “You can’t be! It’s—It’s supposed to be me! I was with Father. It…” The anger melted from his face as grief began to appear. “It was supposed to be me.”

            (Y/N) looked at Michael and walked towards him. Hesitantly, everyone else rose and watched the approach. Even Michael paled a bit.

            “Michael,” said (Y/N). “You have been a total, total asshole.”

            “Oh, no,” said Em, wincing.

            “You have hurt a lot of people,” said (Y/N).

            “What do we do if (Y/N) starts smiting people?” whispered Amenadiel.

            “Cheer because it’s Michael?” suggested Lucifer.

            “Lucifer!” said Chloe.

            “You need to learn a lesson,” said (Y/N).

            Michael closed his eyes, and everyone braced for some Heavenly Wrath.

            (Y/N) instead undid the necklace holding the Flaming Sword together. The fire went out. (Y/N) put their hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You need to learn humility and humanity.”

            “Wha—Ah!” Michael grimaced as his wings furled back into his back. He moved his shoulders. Nothing happened. “What did you do?!”

            “I just cut off a part of your angelic nature,” said (Y/N) calmly. They looked at everyone. “I think…there’s been enough suffering. Enough death. We don’t need more.” They looked at Michael. “And as much as I don’t like you, I’m giving you a second chance. My dad made a life here. Amenadiel made a life. If you can learn to appreciate others and respect them as individuals, you’ll be a true angel. You’ll earn your wings back.” They looked intently at Michael. “Once you act like an angel, you can have all the abilities of one.”

            (Y/N) turned and walked away back to their friends. “Are you all alright?”

            “Uh, yeah,” said Em, looking at (Y/N). “You’re asking us that?”

            “Yeah. You guys are my family,” said (Y/N) as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

            “And you’re alright?” said Lucifer worriedly. What did holding God’s power mean for someone? What if it hurt them?

            “I am,” said (Y/N).

            Lucifer relaxed. “Good.”

            “(Y/N),” said Amenadiel.

            “Yeah?” said (Y/N).

            “I think you need to…say something,” said Amenadiel.

            “Huh?”

            “To the angels.” Amenadiel gestured to the crowd watching (Y/N). “You’re…God.”

            “I’d prefer Deity since I’ve met God,” said (Y/N).

            “This is so weird,” said Chloe.

            “You’re telling me?” said (Y/N).

            “(Y/N), please?” said Amenadiel.

            “I already yelled at them for fighting,” said (Y/N).

            “Just appease them,” said Lucifer. He nudged them. “You can even yell a little more.”

            “…Fine.” (Y/N) turned around to face the group of angels. “Uh, hi. I’m your new Deity.” They waved awkwardly. They looked at Lucifer. He nodded encouragingly. “I know you must all be confused. I am, too. Frankly, I didn’t ask for this. But it’s happened.” They cleared their throat. “So we all have to live with it. I plan to continue living how I want. I think you should, too. Your father and mother left with the wish that you would all move on and find new lives. You’re angels of the Silver City, yes. But you’re also individuals. You have free will. I think…I think that if Amenadiel, Lucifer, and Michael are any indication, you all need a chance to figure out who you are, to find the good and the bad parts of you and learn to live with them. I’m not here to rule you. I’m here to nudge the world in a better direction.” They smiled. “I’m here to be a Deity who loves people. And that includes you all, every part.” (Y/N) waved. “So go on, shoo, go on an adventure, try something new, meet some people who aren’t your family. God—I—know you need it.”

            (Y/N) turned back to their friends and family. “So?”

            “It was amazing, Birdie,” said Em.

            “I’m going to like this Deity,” said Olive. The rest of their friends nodded excitedly.

            “You were perfect, (Y/N),” said Lucifer, hugging (Y/N). He smiled. “I’m so proud of you.”

            (Y/N) smiled tiredly and leaned on Lucifer. “Can we go home, Dad?”

            “Of course.” Lucifer kissed their forehead. “I love you.”

            “I love you, too, Dad.”

Taglist:

@sammyscreencaps-13

@grippleback-galaxy-galaxy

@scarlettqueen190

@ziro-the-null-god

@sammy-13

@zeros-rot

@ceridwyn3

@technikerin23

@poetoflawed

@slytherinroyalty16

@ilse235

@theurbannoodle

@lookitseddie

@amberforest08

@snowy-violet

[jarofalicesgrunge]

Rare pic of David ellefson, Jerry Cantrell and a fan, at El Paso County Coliseum on Clash of the Titans tour in El Paso, Texas, May 21 1991.

📸 wishes to remain anonymous :)

[damiansgoodgirll]

‼️POSSIBLE SPOILERS FOR TOMORROW’S EPISODE OF RAW‼️

———

———

———

so apparently they’re doing this road to wrestlemania in europe…definitely not what i was expecting when cody rhodes said he was working on bringing a PLE in italy ( a lot of rumours suggested either backlash in turin or clash at the coliseum in rome) so i had really high expectations and all they gave us is smackdown���

ANYWAY…i’m really happy that europe is finally getting more exposure! about damn time!

still manifesting for a PLE but im really worried about this smackdown thing in italy as a lot of fans were kinda disappointed with the news…but it’s actually kinda cool that they thought of italy for this…hopefully i will be able to go! (i don’t know even if it’s in march i feel like i only have two days left to decide lol) …if you’re from any of these places let me know what you think and if you’re going!

[420kitties]

Flight Rising Dragons with multiple outfits?

I just started doing it recently and I would love to incorporate it into other dragons:

This is Fang Shivbone, kind of a rogue-ish character that I am slowly making the "front" or "face" of my clan lore through profiles and placement. He basically greets and leads you through the place in order to get you acquainted before revealing he's the one of the top agents/rogues of the clan and letting you know if you get into any trouble, he's always nearby keeping watch of the place.

I decided around the ninja apparel update that I wanted him to look ninja-like.... but some items clashed with the pieces he was wearing.... so I came up with something!

Behold! Fang Shivbone's "combat" and "festival" outfits. I don't know if I'll try and keep up with this by acquiring the pieces and actually dressing him up for shadow festival and coliseum when I use him.... but it'd be really neat. C:

Does anyone else do this???? I wanna see if you do!

[thislovintime]

Peter Tork in 1964. Photo © Andrew Sandoval.

“We worked with the Phoenix Singers for about seven months, and during the last couple of months there were bad vibrations in the air. Pete loved to clown around on stage and the Phoenix Singers didn’t dig that. Pete also disliked being ordered around or told what to do. These two elements clashed, and the fireworks that resulted were the following: It was in October 1964, and we had just finished an in-person, fund-raising concert for Lyndon B. Johnson in Denver. As I said, the pressure had been building for several months. Two of the Phoenix Singers didn’t want Pete in the group, but my buddy Ned wanted him to stay because he dug him musically. I had mixed feelings at the time. I agreed that musically Pete was excellent, but I felt that he had to cool it a bit on stage because there was a personality conflict between him and the two Phoenix Singers mentioned. Anyway, after the LBJ thing in Denver we were preparing to drive back to the hotel in a rented car and Peter, who was going to drive, said, ‘Everybody put on your safety belt.’ Ned, who was in a bad mood, said, ‘No.’ Peter told him once more to put on his safety belt, and once more Ned declined. Soon, they were at it. Ned got loud; Pete’s face got red; and I retreated into a corner of the car. Flash! Out came Pete’s stubborn streak: He said, ‘O.K. — if you don’t put on your safety belt, I refuse to drive.’ And he folded his arms and sat rigidly in the driver’s seat. In a fit of temper, Ned got out of the car and told Pete, ‘Get out!’ Pete removed his safety belt and angrily got into the back seat of the car, and we drove off. At the airport, we got on the plane to New York. It was on the way from Colorado to New York, at 30,000 feet in the air, that the three Phoenix Singers had a meeting, and two against one (for Ned still dug Pete’s musicianship) they voted Tork out of the group. Peter was quiet for the whole flight, and I could tell he was not very happy. I don’t think he cared about the Phoenix Singers that much, but I think he cared about the security that the job had provided and the fun he had been having on the road. I stayed on with the Phoenix Singers for quite a while, and Pete went on to the old routine down in the Village.” - Lance Wakely, 16 Magazine, April 1967 That Denver campaign event is presumably the one that took place 60 years ago today: “No admission will be charged at the [Denver] Coliseum, where the doors were to open at 4:30 p.m. The Phoenix Singers and the Queen City Jazz Band arranged to provide music from 4:30 p.m. until the President’s address starting at 6:00 p.m.” - The Daily Sentinel, October 12, 1964 (As an addendum to Lance Wakely’s article… From Peter’s episode commentary for Monkee vs. Machine (specifically, the line: “Peter, you dig? Pete.”): “I decided I didn’t like ‘Pete’ somewhere around here. Maybe it was that very moment.”)

[jadegretz]

Shermie: Electrifying Diva of the Ring by Jade Gretz

Rain lashed down on the Southtown Coliseum, the metallic clang of each drop echoing through the deserted stands. A lone spotlight pierced the downpour, illuminating a figure standing center stage. Shermie, her crimson cheongsam clinging to her curves, surveyed the arena with a steely gaze. The annual King of Fighters tournament had taken a sinister turn this year.

Gone were the familiar faces of Kyo Kusanagi or Iori Yagami. Instead, a chilling silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain. Whispers of a shadow organization, NESTS, manipulating the tournament for their own nefarious purposes, had reached Shermie. Now, she stood alone, the weight of responsibility etched on her beautiful face.

Suddenly, the air shimmered and distorted, and a figure materialized before her. It was a monstrous parody of Yashiro Nanakase, his once-human form twisted and warped by cybernetic enhancements. Wires snaked from his exposed flesh, interfacing with glowing metal implants. His eyes – once filled with mischievous glee – now burned with a cold, artificial light.

"Shermie," he rasped, his voice a distorted echo of his former self, "you shouldn't have come."

Shermie met his gaze unflinchingly. "Neither should you, Yashiro. NESTS has turned you into a grotesque puppet. Fight me, and maybe, just maybe, there's still a shred of humanity left to salvage."

Yashiro let out a humorless chuckle, the sound devoid of warmth. "Humanity? NESTS has offered me power beyond your wildest dreams. Power to reshape the world in their image."

A flicker of anger crossed Shermie's face. "Power without compassion is just another form of imprisonment," she retorted, raising her hands. A crackling energy, the crimson flames of her signature 'Wild Invitation' technique, ignited around her fists.

Yashiro chuckled again, a chilling sound that seemed to echo in the rain-soaked arena. Metal blades extended from his forearms, humming with a malevolent energy. The battle lines were drawn.

The first clash was an explosion of raw power. Shermie, her mo …(see the rest of the story at deviantart.com/jadegretzAI). For more supergirl, chun li, batgirl, tifa, lara croft, wonder woman, rogue and much more, please visit my page at www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai - Thanks for your support :)

[punkrockhistory]

47 years ago today

The Clash at the Coliseum Harlesden, London, supported by Buzzcocks, Subway Sect and The Slits, March 11, 1977.

Photo by Ian Dickson

[alastors-airwaves]

The DoomsDay District Dome - roaring, shadowed, and filled with Hell's most ferocious onlookers, each demon’s eyes gleaming with excitement as they wait to witness the duel. The clamor of anticipation echoes off the stadium walls as Carmilla Carmine, a respected overseer of duels, strides into the center to referee. The massive screens overhead display Angel Dust and Valentino's faces, broadcasting the event live. Alastor’s voice, smooth and charged with energy, resonates through the coliseum and across Hell's airwaves.

Alastor: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to an event of fire and fury! Today, Hell’s underworld hierarchy will be rattled in a clash of true grit and vengeance! This is Alastor, your host, live from the DoomsDay Dome, ready to witness Angel Dust take on his former handler, Valentino, in a duel that’s been a long time coming!

The cameras cut to Valentino, strutting into the arena through a smoky haze. His crimson eyes glint with disdain, the familiar cocky smirk fixed on his face. A cloud of red smoke billows around him, adding an eerie glow to his presence as he greets the crowd with open arms, soaking in the mixture of cheers and taunts.

Valentino stops in front of Angel, who’s watching with a steely gaze. Angel’s usual playful expression is replaced by something fierce, a glint of fire in his eyes. The crowd roars as his name is announced, and he steps forward, letting his retractable arms stretch out in anticipation. Valentino chuckles, leaning in mockingly.

Valentino: Last chance to drop this silly act, Angelcakes~

Angel: Go fuck yourself, Val.

Valentino’s expression hardens, his smirk twisting into a sneer.

Valentino: When you lose this, expect a world of suffering, sweetheart.

Angel’s face remains unfazed, his fists clenching. Nearby, Carmilla Carmine steps between them, raising a hand to quiet the arena.

Carmilla: This will be an honorable duel. Once I signal, the fight begins and only ends when one of you is incapacitated, cannot fight, or I decide the match is over. She lowers her hand with force, and the crowd erupts.

The bell rings. In a heartbeat, Valentino envelops Angel in his red, swirling typhokinetic smoke. Angel’s vision blurs as the crimson mist surrounds him, a wave of nausea creeping in. But with a grunt of determination, Angel steadies himself, slicing through the smoke with two of his arms while gripping a weapon in his others. His movements are sharp, calculated—a testament to his trained instincts.

Alastor: Look at that! Angel is cutting through Valentino’s smokescreen like a spider shredding a web. He’s got those retractable arms primed and ready—an advantage Valentino seems to have overlooked!

Angel’s strikes slice through the smoke, and one lands a hit across Valentino’s chest, staggering him back. Valentino’s grin falters as his antennae twitch with frustration. With a swift flick of his wrist, he amplifies the red haze, swirling it around Angel, dragging him in close before thrusting him back with a wave of powerful smoke.

Alastor: Oh, Valentino's pulling out all his tricks! He’s using that smoke to whip Angel around! But Angel’s resilient… he knows this tactic too well, and he’s not going down easy!

Angel pushes against the wave with a fierce resolve, using his athleticism to anchor himself, pushing forward with a snarl. He lets years of anger and pent-up frustration guide his strikes, delivering blow after blow through the haze. His retractable arms give him an edge, swinging out with wild precision.

Valentino: *breathless, struggling* Still think you’re a big bad alpha now, Angel? Pathetic.

Angel: Pathetic? *his voice trembling with controlled rage* That’s rich, coming from you.

Valentino: You wouldn’t even be an alpha is it wasn’t for me!

Angel tears through the smoke, his fist crashing into Valentino’s jaw. The blow reverberates, and Valentino stumbles back, disoriented. The crowd gasps and roars, and Valentino’s confident veneer begins to crack as he realizes Angel’s strength.

Alastor: *with a dark thrill in his voice* Ah, yes! Angel is channeling every ounce of power he’s earned outside Valentino’s control. *chuckles* It’s funny, the tyrant never expects his captive to fight back.

With renewed fury, Valentino lunges at Angel, gripping him tightly in a fierce, smoke-filled hold, his typhokinesis choking and constricting Angel’s movements. Angel gasps for breath, momentarily weakened, his body starting to tremble under Valentino’s crushing grasp. Valentino sneers, smugly tightening his hold.

Valentino: You’re mine, Angel. You always were, and you always will be.

But as the crowd murmurs, and the tension in the arena peaks, Angel’s eyes flash with determination and a primal alpha surge. With a final surge of adrenaline, he lets out a roar, breaking free of the smoke's grip. His body lunges forward with a newfound power, fueled by years of pain and anger. He drives his fist hard into Valentino’s chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The crowd erupts into an ecstatic frenzy, demons roaring Angel’s name as he stands tall over Valentino’s defeated form.

Alastor: *gleefully* And there it is! Angel Dust has shattered his chains! Valentino lies defeated, his power, his influence—gone! A new Overlord rises tonight, and Hell’s web of dominance has a new master!

Angel’s chest heaves as he stands, victorious, savoring the crowd’s chants as his own name fills the Dome. He’s won not only his freedom but also Valentino’s title as Overlord, reclaiming his power and finally severing Valentino’s control over him. The screens flash with his triumphant image, solidifying this victory as a powerful shift in Hell’s hierarchy.

The crowd’s roars begin to settle as Carmilla Carmine steps forward, a victorious gleam in her eye as she watches Angel stand above Valentino’s fallen form. She raises her arms to signal for silence, and the Dome quiets, save for the last few echoes of cheering. With a commanding presence, she turns toward the spectators and raises her voice so it resonates through the stadium and beyond.

Carmilla: Demons of Hell, witness the rise of Hell’s newest Overlord! By the rules of the duel, Angel Dust has claimed his freedom, his power, and the souls once bound to Valentino. From this moment forward, he stands as an Overlord in his own right, bound by nothing—and no one.

The Dome erupts once more as Angel raises a fist, a fierce smile breaking through his determined expression. He steps away from Valentino, who remains sprawled, broken and furious, on the arena floor. For the first time, Valentino’s arrogant smirk is nowhere to be seen. He glares up at Angel with a mixture of fury and disbelief, but the weight of his defeat keeps him pinned to the ground.

Alastor: *chuckling with dark satisfaction* Well, well, well… it seems our dearest Angel Dust has truly clipped Valentino’s wings—and taken the entire flock! Bravo, Angel! *pauses with a grin* And to Valentino, a lesson in hubris: one’s hold on power is only as strong as those who willingly stand by you. *laughs*

Carmilla: You’ve earned this, Angel Dust. Know that as an Overlord, you carry not just power, but the responsibility that comes with it. From this day forward, the contracts Valentino once held are yours.

Angel’s smile shifts from smug satisfaction to something deeper—relief, pride, and an unmistakable sense of newfound purpose. He nods to Carmilla, his voice carrying a weight of finality.

Angel: Valentino’s days of control are over. To everyone he’s ever twisted, broken, or bound… I’m free. And so are you.

As the cheers rise to a fever pitch, Alastor’s voice slips into the broadcast with a sly, congratulatory tone.

Alastor: And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen! The spider has spun his final web of freedom! Valentino is dethroned, and Angel Dust—our newest Overlord—stands in the ashes of his old captor’s broken empire. Hell has a new power to fear and revere.

Carmilla: Hail to Hell’s newest Overlord—Angel Dust!