#garden amphitheatre

[mikeywayarchive]

Instagram story by mikeyway

[Oct 31, 2023]

[callmeblake]

From bettiebloodshed's twitter:

Ls dunes covering wrapped around your finger. Franks side. Sorry it’s so much Anthony was facing away most of the time (part 1)

Part one of L.S. Dunes covering The Police's "Wrapped Around Your Finger" at Garden Amphitheatre in Garden Grove, California on August 11th, 2023

(part 2 here)

[hate5sixofficial]

Unbroken 2023-07-29 Garden Amphitheatre Garden Grove, CA

[hornyforpoetry]

How, in the morning brightness, //You all around shine at me, // Springtime, Beloved! // With thousandfold love-bliss // The holy feeling // Of your eternal warmth // Presses itself upon my heart, // Unending beauty!

Ah, upon your breast // I lie, languish, // And your blossoms, your grass // press upon my heart. // You cool the burning //Thirst of my bosom, // Lovely morning-wind! // There calls the nightingale // Lovingly for me from the misty vale. // I come, I come! // Whither, ah whither?

Boboli Amphitheatre // Boboli Gardens // Florence, Italy ”Ganymed” // Goethe

[haverwood]

Opeth: Garden of the Titans - Live at Red Rocks Amphitheatre Geoff George Germany, 2018

[hepdenerose]

Snowy Rows

Contradictory reports of when and where wintry showers were likely on a grey Wednesday, we revisited the cathedral.  The rookery lent an aspect of foreboding to the gloom making the golden hands of the Town Hall clock seem incongruous.  I headed over for an ace city map and CAMRA leaflet from the TIC while Phil did his best to recreate lost shots.  Beside the Dublin Packet, a redbrick arch led to…

[upsidedownwithsteve]

A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [5.9K]

THE TIMELINE

"Oh no, you know you know I'd be lying if I said I wasn't dying, For someone I could die for, someone I could try for Fall apart and cry for, go 'head, risk my life for."

-Someone I Could Die For by Lewis Capaldi

II. ROME, ITALY: 49 BC

The roar that came from the bowels of the Colosseum never became easier to hear. 

The noise seemed to make the city shake, the streets empty, the market stalls abandoned in favour of bloodshed. The games took place in the summer, when the skies were an endless blue and there were no clouds to tamper down the climbing heat. The sun bore down on the sandy pit of the enormous Amphitheatre and the seats were filled, the doors that had already been closed still surrounded by regretful stragglers who were forced to listen to the chaos from outside of the walls. 

Fourteen men had died already, three from the jaws of the lions, two from the bears and eleven from the swords of other imprisoned slaves. The cheering from the crowd made your stomach curl. The floor of the stage was covered in red, the sand streaked with spilled blood and the animals that were bullied back into their cages had their jaws tinted pink. 

It wasn’t a joyous occasion, no matter how many people celebrated in the name of their emperor. The leader of Rome was sitting mere seats away from you, dressed in ruby robes that were slung like a cloak over his white toga and his laurel crown glinted with golden beads that sat tucked into the olive wreaths. He was drunk on wine and violence, and your father sat next to him in the royal box, ever eager to please as he clinked his chalice against his kings. 

Being the daughter of Rome’s most beloved senator certainly had its positives. You were dressed just as finely as the royalty around you, the fabric that was made to fit your frame swept to the floor and only yesterday, the emperor’s cousin had gifted you a necklace made of the finest gold, inset with glittering emeralds, pretty enough for a princess. 

The same cousin smiled at you from across the row, each seat in the royal box made from plush velvet, the high backs ornate and cushioned, unlike the stone carved benches the rest of the civilians were sitting on. You smile back, uneasy but polite, and your father nodded approvingly. 

You were expected to marry, you knew that much. You were already considered too old to be unwed and you knew the rest of the court whispered about how you would now struggle to bear a child. But the man that was expected to be your husband wasn’t who you loved. He wasn’t unkind, he wasn’t cruel - not like you’d heard men could be. The girls in the kitchen would tell you stories of how their husband made demands. Shouting each night for their meals, their baths, how their shirts weren’t stitched right, how their beds would lay cold because their wives were too tired. 

Some men visited the bath houses, you knew that much. Seeking out a lupa for the night, the ladies that were called she-wolves, with their painted lips and robes that showed so much skin. Some men decided that they didn’t need to listen to their wives at all, you were once told, horror etched on your face. Some men took what they thought they owned. 

So no, the emperor’s cousin seemed kind enough. But you weren’t in love with him. You weren’t sure who you were in love with. A dream, perhaps. One that kept returning to you from a young, young age. A dream about a different town, one you’d never been to before. But in your sleep, it felt like home. White buildings and green gardens with tall, tall trees and pretty, ornate gazebos made of stone on the edges of shallow ponds. You were by the sea there, a blue-green ocean that seemed so calm. 

Sometimes monsters came, the marble statues that guarded the city came to life and turned your dream into a nightmare. There was always fire and fury, storm clouds and too big waves and a man with skin the colour of death would try and take your hand. But even when the dream turned bad, there was  always someone else.  

A man, with a blurry face and a mess of almost too long hair. It hid his eyes from you and you could never make out too many details but you burned when you looked at him, you could weep when he touched you. Sometimes he led you through the burning town, his hand clasping your own as you both tried to run and run and run. 

Other times, you lay in a bed with him, skin bare and your head on his chest as he murmured the sweetest poetry to you, words that made your heart race. Your dream was encased in white linen sheets, a hazy, soft light that always made it look like early morning and when the man’s lips met yours, you always woke up. 

Him. You loved him. 

You hadn’t been in love before, but whenever you dreamed of the stranger, you were sure that must have been what love felt like. 

“Have some grapes, darling,” your thoughts were interrupted by your father as he thrust a plate of fruit and cheese under your nose. 

But the fifteenth gladiator was being dragged through the gates by the armpits, a clawed hammer still sticking out from his chest and your insides turned over at the idea of eating such sweet treats as blood poured from the men in front of you. The emperor’s box was almost nauseatingly close to the fights. 

You shook your head before you remembered your manners, smiling politely and murmuring, “I’m quite alright, thank you.” You blew out a breath, shaky and faint. 

From your other side, one of the young girls who had been gifted to you on your sixteenth birthday waved a giant fan. A large peacock feather, a huge plume of colours that merely wafted the too warm air back and forth but you smiled your thanks at your lady in waiting, a pretty girl who’d turned into a prettier young woman. She was small and lithe, angular in the face with curls that came to her sharp jawbone and she smiled back. 

Nancy, as she’d introduced herself to you a week after she’d arrived at your fathers house, from the Wheeler family of Liguria. She didn’t like the gladiator fights anymore than you did, always murmuring about the rights of the animals and how inhumane it was later in the night as she drew you your bath. 

“—from Verona,” your father was saying with a mouth full of provolone. “One of their best, so they say, His Majesty simply had to have him.”

You blinked, frowning in confusion at your fathers words. You hadn’t been paying attention in the slightest and nothing you’d caught made any sense. “Sorry?” You grimaced apologetically and took a few pomegranate seeds from the plate of food in apology for your rudeness. “Who is from Verona?”

Your father rolled his eyes, a sure sign that you’d be lectured in his study later for your lack of respect. “The next gladiator, child.” He gestured to the stage where the soldiers were locking the gates to the tigers, each big cat growling with menace when the men came too close to the bars. “They say he’s unbeatable. Our Highness offered a more than generous helping of coin for his papers but Verona’s general didn’t seem to want to part with him.”    

You frowned again. The crowd seemed to be aware of this man and his presence, murmuring and shifting in their seats in anticipation. “If that is the case,” you prodded. “Then how is he here? If the gladiators… owner—” the word left a terribly bitter taste in your mouth and you felt heavy with guilt when Nancy’s fan brushed your shoulder. “If his owner didn’t want to sell him?”

Your father snorted, an unattractive sound that made Nancy wince beside you. “No one tells the emperor of Rome ‘no’, dearest.” Your father shrugged. “The gladiator cannot be owned, if his owner is dead.”

Bloodshed. Always bloodshed. 

A man came from the east side gates with chains around his ankles and wrists. You couldn’t quite see him for your seat, not yet, but the crowd above and around you roared, eager for the final fight to begin. The man already looked beaten and tired as soldiers stepped forward to unlock his manacles and you sat forward in your seat for the first time since you entered the Colosseum that day. 

He had messy hair, dark brown and hanging just past his chin. It was already damp looking, matted and dirty from being kept god knows where as the emperor's new toy. He was shirtless, his body lean but corded with muscle. He had wide shoulders and a lithe waist, powerful thighs and skin that was tanned from the sun, a sure sign he spent too much time outside, training hard in the Italian heat. 

As he moved closer to the middle of the stage, you saw the marks on his body, leftover scars and new slices in his flesh that still looked viciously red. The crowd got louder as a sword was thrown at his feet, a large, heavy looking thing with a bronze handle. Some cheered for the new warrior, hoping for some excitement, while others jeered and booed, already too attached to their darling reigning champion. 

The gladiator picked up his sword and the crowd became wilder still, but he gave them no mind. He didn’t put on a show like some of the others, he didn’t flex his muscles or raise his weapon like it was already a prize. His leather loincloth was a deep wine colour, the tan leather pleats looking far from newly made and the material was already streaked with blood and dirt before his first opponent arrived. 

Your heart felt heavy for him, as it did for all the others who were forced into the Colosseum - prisoners, slaves and animals alike. You watched the gladiator flex his wrist, testing the weight of his weapon just as the gates in the west cranked open. 

Rome’s current champion strode out from the shadows and into the bright sun, his bare chest glinting with sweat and Hargrove held his hands aloft, grinning as the crowds went insane. He beat his chest, his long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and when he was handed his own sword, he wasted no time in running towards the new fighter, the steel blade glinting. 

You gasped, moving closer still to the edge of your seat and you couldn’t find it in you to bear much mind to the looks your father and Nancy shot you. It wasn’t like you to take such an interest in the sport, never mind be so heavily invested. You didn’t like to watch the wounded, preferring to close your eyes when the screams began, hiding cowardly behind Nancy’s fan when the blood turned the sandy stage pink and red. 

But this new gladiator, he was fast. 

He dove at the last second, dodging the tip of Hargrove’s blade and he rolled towards the section where you sat. Dust kicked up from the move, his sword tearing into the wreaths and sashes that hung from the Emperor’s box. You grasped the edge of the wooden frame, peering over the side and down to the stage, hoping to not see blood already. 

Instead you found the gladiator looking back up at you, his sword still in his grasp and when his eyes met yours, they widened. Something like recognition hurtled through you, a feeling that sucked the breath from your lungs and you felt dizzy, like lightning itself had struck you from the sky. You thought the man perhaps felt the same, a frown on his face telling you that he felt just as confused as you did. 

But before you could consider where on earth you could have possibly seen his face before, Hargrove attacked again, bringing his blade down to where the gladiator's shoulder should have been, if he hadn’t rolled once again. 

You were on your feet now, the stares of your father be damned. Your eyes were wide, your heart beating far too fast, like you yourself were on the stage, being hunted for sport. Wood splintered into the space under your nails as you watched the man run, his muscles pumping, his eyes narrowed. 

“Darling, are you quite alright?” Your father placed a hand on your arm, more confused than concerned. 

“Yes, I just— yes.” You cleared your throat and sat down again, albeit back to the edge of your chair. You could feel the rest of the royal party staring at you. “Where did you say the man was brought from? The new gladiator?”

“Harrington?” One of the Emperor’s councilmen interjected. He pointed a pudgy finger at the brown haired gladiator, who was now swinging his sword with as much power as Hargrove. “Steven Harrington of Verona, best of his breed I heard. His general didn’t take too kindly to the King’s offering and well— you know what happens when his Highness is made to feel upset.”

The metallic clink of the swords filled the arena as everyone held their breaths. Not many had lasted this long against Hargrove before. 

“Rumour has it that he didn’t take too kindly to his general being beheaded. Took six men to get him into the back of the cart, even more to make him train. He’s been refusing food all week.”

The idea of it made you feel unwell, a sickly, creeping kind of pain curling around each of your ribs and suddenly you were starving, just as much as you were sure the man would be. But still, I didn’t seem to make him move any slower, it didn’t hinder him in bringing his sword down any harder. 

But strangely, every time the new gladiator was struck, every time his knees hit the raw sand, every time he got close enough for you to see him suck in a gasping breath— you felt it too. 

It was a battle like you’d never seen before, more vicious than the others from that day, a showdown under the blazing heat of the high sun. No tiger seemed as powerful as Steven Harrington of Verona did. There was something animalistic in the way he moved, all power and lean muscle, a steely glint in his brown eyes that you didn’t dare look away from. He moved too quickly for Hargrove’s blade, dodging and diving as he flung up sand, blinding his opponent and slicing at his legs. Each move was a blur, the stage bleeding with fresh red, the blonde gladiator on his knees. 

But Hargrove was ruthless, grappling with the newcomer until they were both wrestling in the dust cloud and the crowd went insane, people chanted and stomped their feet, the amphitheatre shaking down to its very bones. The imperial box quaked with the energy, but truly, you weren’t present enough to feel it. 

Your eyes never left Steven’s fighting figure. 

The swords seemed to be forgotten, the steel blades rusted with blood, both fresh and new, and they lay in the sand. Fists flew, knees pressed to chests to keep the other down and it was brutal, it was harsh, it was deadly. 

You wanted to vomit. You feared you might. 

You wondered what would happen if you leapt from your chair, if you let your skirts get torn and bloodied in the mess of the stage, if you threw yourself down onto the sand and begged for Hargrove to take his hands away from the new gladiator's throat. 

Would you be punished? Beaten? Locked away? Killed?

You weren’t sure but somehow, all the options felt worth it. You couldn’t watch this man die before you. Not when it felt like you’d already witnessed his death before. 

But Steven wrestled himself out of Hargrove’s hold, twisting and tumbling whilst he gasped, one hand clutching at his reddened neck and the other grappling for his blade. He swung it through the air, arching wide, his wounded shoulder ripping with effort it took but the sword landed where the warrior intended it to. 

Silence settled over the colosseum, the air still enough for you to hear the surviving champion heave out gasping, heavy breaths. There was blood on his hands, his chest, his face. 

His right eye was already bruising, red and lilac coming to the surface of his skin like fresh blooms in spring. His shoulder was a mess, his right leg causing him to buckle slightly as he rose to his feet.  

The man turned, jaw slack, his sword falling limply to the ground once more, his opponent still and at his feet. His eyes found yours and time stilled, at least, to you. The crowd erupted, an explosion in its own right, the entirety of Rome cheering for their new champion. 

A man you were sure you already loved. 

By the time the fight had ended, you felt beaten and bruised. There were no marks on your skin, no blood seeping through your gown, but something inside of you hurt all the same. It felt like something was clawing at your heart, a memory that was banging on the front of your skull, screaming at you to remember. 

When the guards dragged the gladiator from Hargrove’s limp figure, he dropped his sword to the sand and spat a mouthful of blood towards the ground at the royal pit. The Emperor merely chuckled as others around you gasped and before you could even hear your fathers protests, you were on your feet. 

Steven Harrington was shackled once more, the metal chains clinking around his hands and feet. And as he was led away back into the arches, the gears of gates making an awful protesting noise, his eyes found yours once more. 

A burning gaze, too intense to look away from and you could’ve sworn on the gods, on the stars above, that something inside of you tugged sharply. Like the pull of a string, tied in a bow between your ribcage, urging you forward. 

Telling you to go. 

So you did. 

You gathered your skirts in your hands and made your way to the exit of the box, too focused to hear your fathers objections until the guards at the doorway halted you with their spears. The wooden stalks crossed themselves over your chest and you froze, the string tied to your heart pulling tighter and tighter and tighter— 

The Emperor was staring at you, with cold eyes and a smile that wasn’t really a smile. He spoke to your father, not you. “Where, my dear senator, is your lovely daughter running off to?” The king turned back to you, brows raised. “Doesn’t she know that more wine will be served soon? My cousin is looking forward to her company.”

Your father stared at you, a stricken expression on his aged face because everyone in the royal box could read between the lines of the Emperor. 

You cleared your throat, eyes still trained on the sharp metal points of the spears that were very much in your face. “Forgive me, father - your highness - I was merely hoping to get some fresh air.”

“The sight of all that blood makes her rather delicate,” your father agreed and the crowd of councilmen, generals and their wives tittered in their jewels. “She isn’t one for conflict.”

The Emperor stared at the side of your face, something you could feel despite bowing your head in his presence. You stared at the floor and waited, heart racing. 

The royal tsked. “What a pity,” he declared but he waved a hand, each finger heavy with golden rings, and his soldiers stepped aside. “Be back in time for the parade, child, you have company to entertain.”

The Emperor’s cousin leered at you, his wine glass empty, his lips stained ruby but none of it mattered right now, not when you were taking off once more, skirts dragging across the dust and sand, your chest heaving as you tried to navigate your way through the crowd that was already dispersing. 

More guards, heavily armoured and with their swords drawn, were too preoccupied with a fight that had broken out between the arches, two lower class men arguing over a coin they found on the ground. Taking your chance, you moved with your head down, your face hidden as you slipped through a door that was normally carefully watched. 

The heavy wood slammed shut behind you, the sunlight swallowed whole. Burning torches lit the narrow corridor, a maze of them leading you underneath the Colosseum. The hypogeum was almost damp as you tried to navigate its many walkways, a gasp leaving your throat as you took a wrong turn and ended up face to face with the iron bars that separated you from the animals. 

A huge tiger growled at you, bloodied teeth bared in a snarl, the stench of raw meat and faeces hanging in the cool air. You backed away, eyes flickering from cage to cage, each one filled with another poor creature. Lions, bears, a rhinoceros and its offspring, and beyond them, an even larger cell holding prisoners. They all stared at you, men and animals alike, but nothing was spoken. 

You backed away, unable to breath, turning on your heel and walking quickly enough to spot the familiar grey robes of the healers used after the battles. You followed, your steps light, and watched him enter a small room. Between the door opening and closing, you spotted the gladiator perched on a wooden table, his head bent low and his face hidden behind his damp hair. 

You weren’t sure what possessed you, but before you barged into the room too, both men staring at you from the table where the healer held a ragged cloth to the gladiator’s shoulder. 

“Miss, you have no need here,” the healer announced, his voice strict and cold. He narrowed his eyes as he gestured to the door. “This is no place for—”

“My father sent me.” It was a lie, of course. A bold and bare faced one at that. But you stood a little taller and lifted your chin, the emerald necklace at your throat shining in the low light that came from the small fireplace in the corner. “The senate has questions I’ve been asked to deliver. I shall not leave without the appropriate answers.”

On the mantle, beside bottles of acids and other medicinal vials, sat a small statue of the goddess Veratis. Her marble eyes seemed to judge you and your lies and you swallowed down the bitter taste it left on your tongue. But looking at the man - this stranger from Verona - the need to speak to him, to be alone with him, was overwhelming you to the point of senselessness.  

The trouble you could be in if you were to be caught in your lie… or worse, down in the hypogeum. This was no place for a woman of your standing, never mind to be alone with a gladiator, both of you unspoken for. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. 

“If we may have some time alone?” You added with more authority than you should have held. “Unless you’d prefer that my father leave the Emperor’s side to ensure his orders are fulfilled?”

The healer sighed but placed down his tools. He flashed you a smile that was all crooked teeth, more bite than kindness, but he made his way to the door. “That won’t be necessary, My Lady,” he told you and he left, closing the wooden door behind him. 

The silence was a deafening thing. The crackle of the fire was still there, the distant roar of some poor, wounded animal, but whatever was held between the two of you took on a life of its own. It seemed to suck the rest of the world into it until there was nothing left but you and this man. He was staring at you still, brown eyes wide and so familiar, looking as confused as you felt as you stared right back. 

It felt too easy to take a step forward, but the warrior flinched. Your next was slower, softer, more cautious. Your hand found the rag that the healer had once held, what little water it had been soaked in was cold, the material harsh. It didn’t take you long to find a new cloth in one of the drawers of the apothecary table and you took your time to warm some fresh water over the hearth. 

Honestly, you didn’t know too much about medicine, only the basics that your father’s head servant had taught you as a young child. You found the small bottle of alcohol with ease, plucking it from the shelf and adding it to the warm water before soaking the new rag. 

You held it up in offering to the man, still far enough from you that his dirty hair hid most of his face. His tanned chest was streaked with sweat and dust, marred with old cuts and fresher wounds from Hargrove’s weapon, but for the most part, he seemed okay. 

“Can I?”

The gladiator lifted his head then, his hair falling away from his cheeks and you took in a sharp breath at the sight of his face. He was handsome, painstakingly so, but over and above all else, he was someone you were sure you knew. 

The man nodded, just once, lips pressed together and as you came closer, his nostrils flared and his large hands gripped the edge of the table. His eyes raced across your features, recognition coming to the surface and before he could ask the questions that were clawing at his throat, you lifted the cloth and pressed it to the cut on his shoulder. 

He hissed, teeth bared and you frowned, hushing him softly, apologies murmured just as quiet. “I’m sorry,” you told him and gods, he knew you meant it. “I need the alcohol to soak the wound.”

Your heart stuttered when he let you, shoulders tight and back ramrod straight, but his eyes were on your face the entire time you worked. “You’re not a healer,” he said. It wasn’t a question. 

His voice rung through you, a deep timber that was hoarse and scratchy, no doubt from refusing to speak since his capture. You hoped he’d been drinking enough water. 

You shook your head as you pulled away, dipping the bloodied cloth back into the bucket. “No, I’m not,” you confirmed. 

Another swipe at his skin had him jerking in response but the blood and dirt was finally clear of the cut. It would need stitches, you were almost sure of it, but your skills started and finished at the basics. 

“Then why are you here?” The gladiator’s eyes were trained on your necklace, a sure fire way to recognise nobility and you were overcome with the urge to rip it from your throat. “Why did you follow me?” He spoke like he already knew the answer. 

You were hesitant about it, but you couldn’t stop your hand from lifting to his neck, fingertips brushing two beauty marks on his skin. They felt electric under your touch and you were impossibly warmer now, despite the old cell lacking the heat from the summer above. 

“I feel like I know you,” you whispered. Your voice cracked with an emotion you didn’t quite know the name of. “I feel like I’ve mourned you.”  

The gladiator looked back at you from behind his damp hair, the long strands matted with his and his enemies blood. He didn’t look as concerned as he should have been at your strange words. In fact, he leaned into your touch, lashes fluttering at the sensation. 

“What an odd thing to say to someone who hasn’t died,” he answered quietly. But his gaze roamed over your features and something about being so close to him felt cosmic, it felt like a catastrophe waiting to happen. “I think I’ve met you before,” the gladiator whispered. He sounded reverent now, his own hand shaking as he brought it to your face. 

He cupped your jaw, your chin, his rough fingertips trailing over your soft skin and when his thumb dragged across your bottom lip, you gasped and pressed closer. 

“I think I meet you when I sleep,” he said and he frowned at his own words, at how confusing he must’ve sounded. “Every night, when I close my eyes. You’re in a garden and then you’re in my arms.”

Flashes of a bed came to mind, white linen sheets and too much bare skin. A man’s chest, tanned and muscled from hard labour, your hands that roamed the expanse of his back. You remembered how he kissed you in your dreams, with a longing so intense it could waken the gods. 

Like he had enough love for you that he could end the world. 

You could only nod. His thumb was still pushed to your bottom lip, your mouth parted as if you were waiting and his stare was so intense you felt warmer than you had in the stadium above. 

Who was this stranger?

And why did it feel like something inside of you was being stitched back together by the sheer sight of him? His touch felt healing, it felt like home. Like it was only made for you to feel. Like he was made only for you. 

Above, something boomed. Loud enough to be heard underneath the hypogeum, over the roars of the unsettled animals. If you had been outside, you would’ve witnessed the blue sky turning grey, shades of moody lavender and navy, storm clouds rolling across Rome from seemingly nowhere. 

Thunder rumbled,  threatening noise, something that made you and the man move closer to each other, like you both knew you were in danger. 

That you knew something bad was coming. 

“I don’t understand,” you said, eyes blurring. You weren’t sure why you were crying but Steve didn’t seem to question it. He merely swiped away the tears that slipped down your cheeks. “You’re a stranger— we’ve never— we’ve never met.”

Despite your words, the gladiator moved closer, standing from his seat on the wooden table to lean his forehead against your own. Your eyes slipped closed, nose bumping his. He smelled like metal, like blood and dirt and sweat but underneath there was something like fire there, like molten iron, like lavender fields and fresh cotton. Like a daydream, like something you weren’t sure was real. 

His bottom lip touched your top one, only just, only barely. A whisper of a kiss, a small insight of something that could’ve been, of something that maybe once was. 

Thunder rolled again, louder than before, as if it was right above you both. Even over the din of the crowds above, you could hear the heavy patter of rain that was now flooding the colosseum, the stage soaked. Another warning, something you’d seen before in a dream just before it turned to a nightmare. 

“I was meant to find you,” Steve murmured. He had your face cradled in his hands, an overwhelmingly gentle touch despite the dried blood under his fingernails. His voice grew in urgency then, like he knew something was coming. Someone. “I was meant to come here. I can feel it. I understand now.”

“Someone once told me you’d come back,” you suddenly remembered, your voice eager, your eyes wide at the memory. “I don’t know— was it you? From before? From—”

From another life, you wanted to say. 

How ridiculous those words were, how silly, how stupid. But there wasn’t any other way to explain. Logic didn’t seem to exist when everything you felt from this touch of this stranger led you to believe that somehow, someway, you’d spend a lifetime together. 

Like you were supposed to spend this one with him too. And it didn’t seem long enough, decades wouldn’t make up for the time you’d lost searching for him, for this stranger who only came to you in your sleep. But he was very real now, solid flesh and bone underneath your own hands, brown eyes that seemed warmer than the Italian summer. 

You didn’t want to let him go. 

“In here, my King,” a voice interrupted. The door was open and the healer had returned, a cold look on his already stern face. The Emperor was behind him, ruby robes collecting dirt from the old floor. Four soldiers flanked him. “I have every reason to believe the Lady sold me lies, Your Highness.”  

It happened too quick. Too fast. 

The Emperor studied you, Steve’s hands still on your face as you stood too close, ready to kiss, ready to fulfil something neither of you were sure of. It felt catalytic. 

“Seize him,” was all the Emperor said, one lazy flick of his wrist sending all four guards at you both. 

There was too much movement in the tiny room, bottles of medicinal wares clattering to the ground and smashing at your feet. The table groaned as Steve was shoved into it, his own reactions too slow from his injuries. He grunted and reached for you too late, his hand slipping from your own, fingers barely touching, as he was shoved at from either side. 

One soldier shoved the butt of his sword into Steve’s wounded soldier, the other bringing his armoured knee into his bare stomach. The gladiator doubled over, a gasp leaving his chest before he fell to his knees on the stone floor. 

“Stop this!” You yelled, urging forward, trying your best to throw yourself into the mix of it all but someone’s arms - another soldier - caught your round the middle. “Unhand him! Your Highness - please - he hasn’t done any wrong, please—”

The Emperor just looked at you blankly before he picked at the jewels around your neck. He tutted, as if it were a shame, a waste. You could hear the shackles being placed back on the man, the low groan he gave as the metal was tightened around his sore wrists. 

“He won,” you whispered, your voice low and choked. You were ready to beg. “Please, he won. He doesn’t deserve this—”

“I don’t like anyone else playing with my toys,” the Emperor interrupted. He said it like he was discussing what to have for lunch. “And my dear cousin doesn’t like anyone playing with his.” He motioned to the guards once more. “Take her back to her seat, where you make sure she stays. This isn’t any place for a Lady,” he told you mournfully.

You didn’t get to see what happened to the gladiator as you were escorted out of the room. But you did hear his yells when the door slammed shut, the dull thuds of impact that you were sure were on his already bruised and broken body. You hadn’t even told him your name, or that you dreamt of him too. That during your worst night terrors, he was the one that saved you. 

When you reached the imperial box once more, your skirts dirtied from the sand, your face tear stricken, you felt broken. Like you’d been snapped in half, like someone had found that wound Steve had stitched up and pulled it apart again the seams. Like someone had ripped something important from you, half of your heart, perhaps. 

You didn’t even notice that it had stopped raining. The skies were blue once more, the sun shining, the only evidence of the sudden storm were the drops of rain that had soaked into the pillow on your chair. 

Steve was gone and the thunder was too. 

[spunknbite]

He’s thought about kissing Crowley before

On the banks of the Euphrates. Under a juniper tree in the Hanging Gardens. Traipsing through some desert — Arabian, Gobi, Namibian, Kalahari — they all ran together. Beside a rice paddy in the Qinling Mountains. In coliseums and amphitheatres, then theatres and pubs. Over wine or tea or coffee, over too many meals to remember. At an airbase nearing the end of the world, and on the bus ride home after the world didn’t end after all. All of the nights thereafter.

Of course, he’s thought about it. Sometimes it feels as if he scarcely thinks of anything but. 

Quiet down, you, he’d plead in those moments. No use in any of that foolery. Angels simply can’t want like that, the ache of the want be damned. Even fallen angels; there’s an order to things, lines in the sand.

But still, he’s thought about it.

Alone, after those clandestine, ill-conceived meetings of old. Hours later back at the shop, paired wine glasses empty, nose in a book in some paltry attempt to divert his wandering attention. He prays — to God, to the author of whatever book fails to hold his gaze, to his own sense of propriety — but the prayer goes unanswered and so he thinks instead.

A staccato inhale, a press of lips, flush. Who would initiate it? Did it even matter? Lean fingers pull him close and Aziraphale follows as if he’s allowed to, as if he can follow any but the path that was set out before him. And Crowley would taste of the wine or spirits that they’d been drinking hours before this torrid, little fantasy began.

How would Crowley kiss him? Aziraphale had no experience in the matter, naturally. But he’s read enough books, watched cinema, observed the couples on Whickber as they dawdle down the way after an evening out, and he can imagine it. The certainty of it, the way Crowley owns an idea and then just rushes heedlessly forward, assured. No doubt, no hesitation, just momentum and an inner gravity that pulls Aziraphale in, attracted to a sort of confidence that Aziraphale can’t understand. And he’d kiss him like that, firm and heady, like if they could just get close enough to one another they might carve out some sort of safety separate from Heaven and Hell and the nature of the cosmos that prevents this very act from occurring in the first place. 

Fingers would thread through his hair, a sharp hip bone knocks into him as they slot together, and suddenly all is warm and wet and perhaps this is what drowning would feel like if drowning was equal parts terrifying and astounding. Wicked and miraculous. 

“We could have been…us.”

The words only just register as Crowley has him by the lapels, and the kiss is now and here and real, and not some weak midnight submission. 

There is no finesse, no craft, no delicacy. Crowley’s wile and strategy, gone. Just want. He wants in a way that Aziraphale has never permitted himself to. A sort of desperate, wild anguish, and Aziraphale can feel the implicit please please please through every shudder, every movement. No assurance, no givens, only a reckless beggar, and Aziraphale could almost recognize the need as his own, if he’d ever sat with the feeling long enough to comprehend it.

He wants to lean in, wants to wrench Crowley somehow closer, impossibly, like he would in an evening wondering. Forsake Heaven and with it his chance, their chance, at any sort of redemption. He wants to succumb, wants to give himself over with yes and finally and now, because the righteousness of it all seems more absolute than anything Aziraphale has felt.

But he knows better. He was made better. His hands dance over Crowley’s back, unsure, hesitant, fearful that if he touches him the rest of his body may follow, and he may fall right alongside him. 

It’s over before it’s begun, a human expression. And Crowley’s gone.

His shuddering hand lifts to his lips, sore and unnaturally hot, an almost pins-and-needles burn across his mouth. Is it hellfire or purely Crowley? How to disentangle them? Aziraphale tastes the acrid I forgive you as the heat cools and fades off his lips and from his fingertips, and with it the prospect of seeing Crowley again.

***

now tidied up and on AO3

[got-ticket-to-ride]

hi sorry but do you have any soft mclennon moments to share too :') the post you made about 22 seconds of longing hurt oh my god

Sorry for the delay in reply anon. I'm actually just a corporate collar acting my way as a temporary secretary every hard day's night, jobbing like a dog, 8 days a week in an English garden to afford a tan in the rain.

Hope this finds you well! Here are 22 McLennon moments as compensation for Johnny's 22 agonizing seconds in the pining video.

1.) "I'm Happy Just to Dance with You" scene when they both looked at each other at the same time. And the director had to pan out the scene because it would've been too straight. I know dilated pupils when I see it.

2.) Inviting your favorite boy to a solo trip to Spain but you stayed in Paris because it was so romantic, sharing a bed, picking out clothes for each other, slurping all the banana shakes, you know normal roommate things according to historians.

3.) Getting a solo invitation from a hot photographer and bringing along your best boy because you are attached to the hip and can't be separated.

4.) Their need to constantly touch each other

5.) Scene in Help (1965), where John is using all his strength to carry George and Ringo's weight and not crush Paul (because boyfriend things)

6.) Holding hands for mental support during a recording. (John is needy, please forgive him)

7.) Walking Martha like a couple in 1967 - outfits coordinated and all

8.) Impressions by people who met them:

"[John and Paul] sort of had their own way of communicating. Hardly anything was spoken, they just knew what the other wanted or was getting at and they had the most amazing talent."

"He was like a different animal with Lennon. When they were together they became something else, more than just the two of them together. That communication was incredible. It was like two high-speed computers just fizzing between each other."

9.) John is hiding his cigarette behind him, because he doesn't want to bother Paul with the smoke. (You know, boyfriend things).

10.) A portrait, king and princess up front. John's thigh just casually resting on Paul's (yet again).

11.) The spider fingers during a press conference, because they are actually both 12

12.) That very flirty jam session in Austria in 1965 that was cut short, but they probably continued after anyway

13.) The way they talk about the day they met sounds like "how I met the love of my life" Happy Honeymoon <3

14.) Quote from Emerick

The lights in the studio were turned off to set the mood; the sole source of illumination was a table lamp next to the wall. The two beatles, lifelong friends and collaborators, sat on high stools, facing each other, studying each other’s lips intently for phrasing.

15.) When they answer each other's songs

Paul in Can't Buy Me Love: "If it makes you feel alright?"

John: "I Feel Fine"

17.) “I could even hear what they were saying off-mike; ‘Oh Paul, you’re so cute tonight’ was met with the reply, ‘Sod off, Lennon.’” — Joan Baez on accompanying the Beatles to their concert in Red Rocks Amphitheatre, Denver. 26 August 1964

18.) Paul looking at John like he wants to eat him later after finishing with "I'm a Loser"

19.) Giving instructions on how John's hair needs to "look"

20.) Paul acting as John's walking stick

21.) Paul's heart eyes during this 1966 conference (also that lip bite... eat you later?):

22.) John the worried boyfriend who checks on Paul in the middle of an interview and doesn't believe him when he just says : "oh, yeah..."

John internally: "come on now, why aren't you laughing at my joke babe? You're unwell!!!"

The Bottles over and out.

Thank you for this ask. This was quite fun! Would love to hear your thoughts too <3

[mikeywayarchive]

Instagram story by byrneinel

[Aug 12, 2023]

[callmeblake]

From bettiebloddshed's twitter:

Sorry for the delay signal wasn’t great but here is the back half!

Part two of L.S. Dunes covering The Police’s “Wrapped Around Your Finger” at Garden Amphitheatre in Garden Grove, California on August 11th, 2023

(Part 1 here)

[lsdunesarchive]

Frank Iero of L.S. Dunes at Garden Amphitheatre (Garden Grove, CA) on August 11, 2023 | 📸: Cam Feuerstein for Punkaganda Press

[ohallthecrushes]

"Cupcake"

A/N: I decided I'm not back at writing, I'm just going to write sometimes. It puts less pressure on me, therefore it's easier for me to sit and write. If that makes sense. xd it's my first try with The Sandman series and this is a comedy scene my brain has imagined.

Summary: Reader and Morpheus are together, but it's the beginning of their relationship. She accidentally calls him pet name for the first time ever and it gets very awkward very quickly.

You were sitting in a library surrounded by old tomes and ancient text. Focused on a book in front of you, you were trying to figure out what it said. A pen was shifted between your fingers before it hit a paper and you wrote down the first line of a spell in your notebook. It was important not to make a mistake in translation. One word wrong and you could accidentally turn someone into a frog... or worse.

Luckily for you Morpheus was there beside you willing to help you decipher the archaic language that had been used in that book. One line after another the spell was getting more and more clearer. You smirked to yourself as you were writing down another line. You almost had it all, including most of the ingredients.

The pen parted from the paper as you looked at the book. Morpheus leaned closer to you to show you that one letter was changing meaning of the whole sentence. His long finger tapped softly on the text in front of you. You had no doubt that without Morpheus' help, you would have spent all night here getting frustrated and tired.

"... combines with this word, changing its meaning"

You nodded.

"No wonder ancient spells are that tricky, the language is very complex. Nowadays spells are simple - you just need to find words that rhyme." You joked as you glanced at Morpheus.

"I'm quite sure it's more than just that." He replied with a serious tone.

"I was joking..." you said as you smiled playfully. "Of course it's more than a good rhyme that makes a spell."

Morpheus didn't always get your sense of humour, but you didn't mind explaining to him your jokes or telling him when you were being sarcastic. It would take time before he sensed your joking manner and before you got his more subtle sense of humour. After all you were still getting to know each other.

As you were writing down the last things on the list of ingredients, you started to wonder what would you do with all the time you saved because of Morpheus help. Perhaps you could take him to go for a stroll in the Dreaming garden and lay down under a tree or you could go visit the amphitheatre or stay in the library and talk for hours... There were endless possibilities and it was never boring with your lover by your side. You knew that whatever you'd decide to do tonight didn't matter as long as it was you and Morpheus.

Lost in your thoughts, you didn't realize that Morpheus noticed that your mind had wandered somewhere else.

"Perhaps you shall pay more attention to your notes Y/N..." His dreamy voice caught your attention. "...you wouldn't want to unintentionally create a wrong spell."

"No, I would definy not, Cupcake..." You replied half absent-minded as you tried to focus on your notes to quickly finish the translation.

The thing was... Thinking about your date with Morpheus had distracted you already and it was hard not to let your mind wander where tonight's events could lead you. Even though his voice drew your attention, your mind was half here, half somewhere... else, and it took a second or two before you realized what had just left your mouth.

"Cupcake?" Morpheus arched an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the unexpected nickname.

Awkward silence filled the room. Your eyes widened, and you immediately regretted the slip of your tongue.

Oh god you thought. Did I just call Lord Morpheus a Cupcake?! The powerful lord of dreams and nightmares, neon years old a... cupcake? And he heard that?!

You didn't know what to say, you definitely weren't that close to use pet names, and considering his reserved and dignified demeanor, you wondered if he felt offended.

"What?" That's all your mouth managed to say as you turned your head to look at him.

"I believe you called me a dessert." He maintained his composure, but a hint of amusement appeared behind his voice.

"Uh, I... I didn't mean... I just... it just slipped out. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... call you that." You stammered embarrassed as your eyes fixed on the book.

"I see..." He listened as you fumbled to explain yourself. A mixture of surprise and amusement swirled like the ethereal mist of dreams in his mind. His expression softened ever so slightly, the corners of his lips hinting at a rare trace of amusement.

"Yeah, it's just a pet name..." You tried to recover. "A playful one."

You couldn't look him in the eye, feeling embarrassed by your unintentional slip-up. It was awkward.

"I understand, it's merely a... surprising choice of endearment." He replied.

You blushed. You cleared your throat, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

"So... About the ingredients..."

"Indeed." He agreed. "Let us focus on the matter at hand..."

[current-mcr-news]

frankieromustdie: Tonight’s our (last) night Garden Grove…

5:30pm doors @ Garden Amphitheatre with Pink Shift.

LAST SHOW OF TOUR!!!

Thank you to everyone for making this such an amazing run. KTF 🖤 xofrnk

[Aug 11, 2023]

[chacha-5]

Garden Amphitheatre, Garden Grove CA , 11.12.2022

📸 by Casey Lee ( Twitter CaseyLeePhoto )

[laurenairay]

Cale and accidental kiss?

Accidental Kiss – Cale Makar

Words: 657

Thank you for choosing this one for Cale! I think it fits him well haha.

~

“I don’t know what to say other than you’re blowing my mind with these dates, Cale.”

A show at Red Rocks Amphitheatre, an afternoon at Denver Botanic Gardens, and now a romantic dinner at Blue Island Oyster Bar? Cale really had been pulling out all the stops. Three dates in and you already knew you were well on your way to being wooed by the handsome guy you’d met only a couple of weeks ago.

“Good. I’m trying to sweep you off your feet if you hadn’t noticed,” he replied, grinning.

This cheeky side of him had been a welcome surprise when it had first appeared, you could admit that much.

You just laughed at his words, ignoring the slight heat in your cheeks as you pulled out your phone to order an uber to take you home. As much as you didn’t want the date to end, it would be finishing in the perfect place with the perfect vibes, and you could only hope he felt the same way you did.

“My uber will be here in two minutes,” you announced, slipping your phone back into your handbag, smiling up at him.

“I’ll wait until you’re in the car to head home myself, if that’s okay.”

“You really are a sweetheart,” you said, meaning every word.

He just blushed, ducking his head briefly before lifting it again, looking pleased at your words.

Impulsively, you leaned up on your tiptoes, intending to press a kiss to his cheek, but Cale turned his head last minute and your lips caught his instead. He froze as you quickly pulled away, mortification filling your body. That was the last thing you’d been expecting to happen.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I was going to kiss your cheek?” you said, wincing.

“And I turned my head to ask a question like an idiot. I’m so sorry,” he groaned.

“Accidents happen? It was an easy mistake to make?”

The word mistake felt heavy on your tongue though. It wasn’t like you didn’t want to kiss him – you just didn’t think the two of you were at that place yet?

“Maybe we can have a do over?” Cale asked hopefully.

If the mortification wasn’t still lingering, you might’ve said yes. But not now. Not tonight.

“Another time?” you offered, biting your bottom lip briefly.

It was all you could do to hope that you hadn’t just ruined everything.

But Cale just nodded, smiling, the only slightest hint of disappointment in his eyes. “Definitely another time. I won’t mess that one up.”

The self-deprecation in his voice made you smile softly, and you shook your head.

“Our first intentional kiss is going to be great, I already know that,” you mused.

Cale’s cheeks filled with a warm blush, and he seemed to lose the tension in his frame, letting you lose tensing you didn’t realise you were holding.

“I’m going to kiss your cheek now,” you announced, only teasing a little.

He just huffed out a laugh, cheeks flushing a little more, but he turned his head ever so slightly to give you better access. What a sweetheart. You leaned up on your tiptoes again, this time even more aware of what you were doing, and pressed your lips softly to Cale’s cheek, lingering ever so slightly with your hands resting on his chest. You felt Cale let out a shaky breath as you pulled away, and he smiled at you in a way that took your breath away. Your first intentional kiss was going to be amazing, that was for certain.

“I think your uber is here.”

Cale’s soft voice broke your thoughts, and sure enough a car was pulling up beside you.

“Thanks for tonight. I had a great time,” you said, smiling sweetly.

“I did too. Call me when you’re home?”

What a gentleman.

“I will. Goodnight Cale.”

“Goodnight,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets as he watched you walk away.