#had the GALL to arrange it

[dandelion-de-deus]

the real reason I don’t listen to a lot of classical music is because I’ll inevitably start listening to some Mendelssohn sextet and find myself getting really upset over the fact that I don’t live with more musicians

[oceantornadoo]

sleepy morning (simon riley x f!reader)

part 4 of the two lieutenants series...HORNINESS LEVEL 1000

tw: wet and messyyyyyyyyy MDNI

--

that had to have been the best sleep of your life.

no seriously. extra strength melatonin could not compare to sleeping with simon THEE “ghost” riley. you had never had such a broad, thick man on top of you. and you liked it.

now, however, you found yourself in a much more compromising position.

the sleep had started innocent enough, you both insisting it was a platonic arrangement, a cheap version of getting a weighted blanket. but you had shuffled in your sleep, and now your bodies were tangled. simon's head lay on your collabone, his mouth hovering over your clothed breast, emitting small sighs in his sleep. your nipples were aching at the prolonged stimulation, his breath changing the temperature and making them harden. his hands grasped you beneath your arms, thumbs brushing the sides of your tits. you didn't think it was on purpose, but you had been on the edge for hours.

simon nuzzled closer into you, feigning sleep as long as possible. his left thigh wedged between your legs, his right bracketing the outside of yours to keep you right there. his morning wood, clothed by his thin sweats, laid heavy against your thigh. he could almost smell the wetness between your thighs, the way you tried humping him when you were asleep. little, uncontrolled movements of your hips, up and down, chasing friction. he tried to stop his teeth from sinking into your clothed tit, the softness of it so tempting. you were right there, almost his, yet so far it felt like foreign territory. somewhere he's been plenty of times, unwelcome. he had to tread carefully. then of course, soap had the gall to knock.

"l.t.? yer on recruit training, started a couple minutes ago." simon groaned against you, providing even more friction to your tit. guess he couldn't pretend to be asleep anymore. "'m sick. cancel it." a pause, soap was unbelieving. when simon was sick, if anything, he coached the recruits with even more vengeance than usual. "yer sure?" simon propped himself up on his forearms, squishing you in between them even more. you looked up at him, a dream with your tired eyes and a bit of drool at the corner of your mouth. he laid a small kiss to your forehead, so small you must still be dreaming. "cancel it. 'm bedridden today." his gravelly morning voice must have been enough for soap, who he could virtually hear straightening up after leaning against simon's doorframe. "got it, l.t."

simon breathed a sigh of relief. finally, finally, he acknowledged you. "mornin' dovie. sleep well?" sleep well?! you had slept like the dead. "best sleep of my life, simon. might have to make this a regular thing." you joked, still unsure of the lines that had been erased last night. and that forehead kiss. "available whenever ya need, love." you were still tangled together, his cock still against your cunt. you bucked against him again involuntarily, the whisper of friction too light for you. you both looked down together at where you were almost touching, separated by two layers of fabric. "simon i-"

another loud knock. "what." simon gritted out. "seen the better lieutenant, ghost? we're supposed to run drills today an' i can't find her." it was gaz and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. simon looked down at you questioningly and you shook your head vehemently. "she's sick. contagious." gaz was choking back a laugh. he must have talked to soap before this. "alrigh', i'll tell price. get better, you two." fuck.

"shit, si, i'm sorry. should have slept at my own place i-" another forehead kiss this time, a bit longer than the first. he trailed his mouth to your nose, small pecks here and there. turning his head down, he nosed your jaw, inhaling the smell of your mixed scents. like you were two of the same. one.

"can i?" you were so far gone it took a bit for his question to register. you had tilted your head back to give him more access, a willing prey to your domestic predator. "can- can you what?" he moved down a bit more, cock moving away from your cunt. you unwillingly let out a whine at the loss of contact and he chuckled into your skin. "suck your tits, baby." oh. oh.

"yes, yes. please"

he laughed again, the sensation vibrating through your skin. his mouth finally made contact with your tit, mouthing at it over your t-shirt. thankfully, it was thin, so you can feel the slight suck and the ghost of a bite. he alternated between your breasts, hands rolling the other nipple he wasn't sucking. your shirt was wet, sticking to your skin, drenched in saliva. "simon, can you- please." the last part was a moan as he gave you a bigger bite. "use your words, lieutenant." he was rutting into the bed, cock chasing much needed friction. he didn't want to scare you but his need for you was bubbling over, a pot on the stove too long. "my shirt, ah, my shirt off."

he freed you from your shirt, the fabric drenched in his saliva, sticking to your skin as he peeled it off. your tits were wet and slightly bruised from his minstrations. marked.

"you like my marks on you?" you looked down, not caring about the unsexy double chin as you took in what he had done to you. keeping it platonic was done and dead, and you were going to take advantage of it.

"more."

a willing soldier, he dove back in, licking and sucking like he had been made for it. his right hand went lower, palm pressing against your wet pussy for some much-needed attention to your clit. you had never come from nipple stimulation alone, but you had been edged for hours while you were sleeping. the pressure on your clit was perfect, the wetness seeping through your sleep shirts onto his callused hand. he let go of your nipple with a loud smack, a string of saliva dripping from his chin. "think you can come like this, dove?" you nodded furiously, his desperate little dove. simon went back down to your abandoned tits and you gasped at the feeling of his bite. he pressed his palm harder against your aching cunt, virtually feeling the flutter of your wanting pussy, pleading for him. he rubbed it in circles, up and down, listening to your sounds to find a pattern you liked.

and suddenly he had it, your back arching as you felt that telltale spark at the base of your spine. simon felt it, your desperation increasing tremendously as you bucked into his hand, thrusting out your tits like a bitch in heat. "right there, baby. come fer' me, hm?" you nodded as he gave your tit one last long suck and pressed his palm right where you needed it, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. he lightly tongued your breasts as you came down, cleaning up his mess. "feel better?" you groaned, the reality of how desperate you had acted finally hitting you.

"they all know, simon. the whole base knows by now." he moved up until you two were face to face. so what if the whole base knew? you had been his since that first handshake.

"so what?"

--

guys this was so horny wowwwwwwwww ovulation hitting me fr

[justwinginglife]

Friends With Benefits ft Soshiro Hoshina

Soshiro just fucked your brains out and had the gall to ask you to bake him cookies afterwards.

You pant against the pillowcase, hands still gripping the sheets tight. "Excuse me??"

He smirks. "You heard me. Cookies. I want 'em."

You roll your eyes, wiping sweat off your brow and turning to look at him. "You're ridiculous, you know that Shiro?"

He grins. "What are friends for?"

You roll your eyes again at that word. Friends. What a strange word to use for whatever this was. You and Soshiro had been close ever since you joined the defense force together, always pushing each other to train harder and bantering with each other to no end. Then one night after everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself alone with your hand and he'd walked in on you to your shock and embarrassment. But he just smirked and offered to help and ever since then you've had this little arrangement for whenever one of you needed to blow off steam. It was convenient at first, but then you'd be minding your own business brushing your teeth or eating dinner- something unassuming- and you'd find yourself thinking about the way his neck looked when he swallowed or the way his back looked after you'd dug your nails into it. Then it wasn't even about the sexy things anymore, it was the way he absentmindedly started playing with your hair when he was bored or the way he chewed when he was eating your cookies. Right. He wanted you to make him cookies. You shake your head to snap yourself out of it.

You pull yourself out of his bed, groaning at the effort, and then throw on one of his oversized t-shirts. "If I burn myself, I expect you to kiss it better." You tell him, starting to preheat the oven.

He laughs. "If you burn yourself, I'll be shocked. You've made me so many batches of cookies before, you should be able to do it in your sleep."

You start pulling ingredients out of the fridge and say to him, "I bet one of these days you'll actually ask me to do it in my sleep too. You're shameless, you know that?"

He grins cheekily. "You just can't say no to me, I've got to take advantage of it where I can."

You roll your eyes again but start mixing up the cookie batter because, as he said, you just can't say no to him. He'd been your closest friend for so long, and to your surprise, he'd started to become something else to you too. But you couldn't let him find out about that. He'd never let you hear the end of it.

You place the bits of balled up dough onto a baking sheet and pop it into the oven, setting the timer.

"You're cooking dinner since I just did dessert. You know that's the deal." You poke him in the arm. He feigns being offended but he gets started cooking. You watch as he pulls on that familiar apron he always wears when he cooks you dinner. After you accidentally discovered he was a great cook by stealing a bite of his bento box at lunch one day, you'd forced him to cook for you frequently after that and he claimed that he wanted your baking as compensation.

It was hard to imagine life without him at this point. You sigh, earning a concerned look from him. He set his knife down on the cutting board. "What is it? C'mon, you don't make that face for nothing." He tucks a finger gently under your chin and props it up so you're meeting his gaze.

"I'm just hungry and you're slow." You lie.

He laughs slightly but he shakes his head at you in a knowing way. "You may be hungry, but I know that's not what you're really thinking about. I'm here when you wanna talk, okay?" He continues to cook, letting you have some space to think. He's too damn considerate for his own good. If he keeps this up, you could really be in love with him.

You fidget with your fingers. The kitchen starts to fill with wonderful smells and you inhale, letting the scent of his familiar cooking warm you. You close your eyes and try to relax as you listen to him hum to himself while he starts to fry things on the stove. You sense that he is looking over at you every couple minutes just to make sure you're doing okay and it drives you crazy. So damn considerate, you think to yourself again, frustrated.

Finally you sigh, exasperated and you open your eyes, about to say something when he presents you with a plate of food. Your eyes gleam and you happily accept. He watches you carefully as you eat and you try not to think too much about how his beautiful eyes are focused so intently on you.

"So-" He starts, but the oven timer beeps. You shoot up out of your chair and go to take the cookies out of the oven, thankful for the distraction. He looks like he wants to say something but the smell of cookies distracts him, and he starts crowding around you to get a view of the sweets.

"Hot. Okay?" You warn him, knowing that if you weren't there, he would've burned himself shoveling these things into his mouth.

He nods quickly, but you can tell he's impatient for the cookies. You laugh and poke the tip of his nose. He grins. "What was that for?"

"You're just like a little puppy. Wagging your tail, waiting for treats." You tease and he rolls his eyes at you, playfully yanking you towards him and ruffling your hair.

He realizes he has time to ask his question since he has to wait for the cookies to cool down, so he loosens his grip on you, it's just enough so he can face you properly but not enough that he can't feel your warmth on his skin. "So what's going on?" He asks finally.

You sigh. "Can't we just wait for the cookies in peace?"

He shakes his head no. He's let you have your time to think but now he wants to help.

You sigh again. Might as well get it over with. "What are we?" You ask, cautiously.

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

You rest your forehead in your palm, wondering how you're going to explain this to him.

"Like what am I to you?" You say again, unprepared for the sweat that's started to trickle down the back of your neck and the heat that's started to rise in your cheeks. The words that you've spilled into the air seem to want to crawl back down your throat and hide for dear life in your stomach.

He blinks again. "You're my best friend?"

Great. So now he's just bestfriend-zoned you. And since when were you best friends anyway?? This relationship of yours is escalating both too quickly and not quickly enough. You groan. You're in love with the sweetest, sexiest, smartest man alive and yet somehow he's an idiot when it comes to stuff like this. You're going to have to put it bluntly. Very bluntly.

"Soshiro. We fuck. I bake you cookies. We fuck. You text me all the time saying you miss me. We fuck. We share secrets and jokes with each other. We fuck, again. What in the hell are we? Lovers, idiots? Serious, unserious? Give it to me straight." Your words tumble out like they're falling down stairs, once they gain momentum you can't stop until you've hit the bottom. You don't realize just how desperately you need his answer until the chaotic mess that is your feelings crashes through your lips and lands at his feet.

Please answer me. Don't answer, don't tell me what you think. Ignore what I just said. Tell me what you're thinking. Don't tell me. I need to know. I don't want to know.

Your thoughts bound back and forth in your head like a tennis ball constantly changing sides on the court.

The silence in the air is so loud that it almost splits your skull. Your ears feel like they're bleeding from the lack of a response. You're spiraling. This is it. This is how we end.

He grabs your chin and forces you to look at him again. Your heart stops. You see his eyes. They're warm and light and they make you feel like everything is going to be okay. He finally smiles at you. Yeah. Everything's okay now.

You exhale softly, not even realizing you'd been holding your breath.

He cups your face in his hands and rubs your cheeks softly with his thumbs.

"Well how about we start with what you want to be? Can we start there?" He asks gently, as though you've got all the time in the world to answer.

You nod slowly. "I-I want to be more."

He smiles. "Okay. I can do that. How much more?"

You flush red.

"I see I'm going to have to take the lead on this one." He chuckles. "Okay, will you settle for being my girlfriend for now? Let's see where this thing goes, and see if we want to do more than just date, yeah?"

You nod again.

He kisses your cheek and it's not the rough, hungry, demanding kiss that you're used to. It's sweet and soft and you think you could do with a few more of these kisses. You tap your other cheek and he laughs but he leans in to kiss the other one too.

"Now, can I please have my cookies?" He teases.

You roll your eyes. "Most insufferable boyfriend ever." You shove a cookie in his mouth.

"But a happy boyfriend, nonetheless." He winks at you.

Yeah, you could get used to this.

[elysianightsss]

Regency Price thot🌹🤍

I am working on Limerence and Part two of both mountain man and the pen pal au by popular demand. But while you wait for me to write those please enjoy this lovely Viscount John Price and his Viscountess.

Price sat waiting patiently, newspaper in hands reading the latest gossip of the ton. “Aristocrats.” He scoffed low under his breath. Being one of the wealthiest, best-connected members of the middle class came with privileges but too much gossip as far a Price was concerned. Unless it directly affected him he couldn’t care less.

The doors to the dining room opened and in walked a butler, white curly wig on top of his head, his hands wringing together in nervousness as he looked at his master. “Well?” Price asked without looking away from his newspaper, an interesting snippet about a whistle or a lady down or something or other caught his eye.

“My Lord she..” the lack of answer was beginning to agitate him, he rolled up the paper and slammed it on the table, finally making eye contact with the butler.

“What?” Price snapped.

“She doesn’t seem to be here My Lord.” He said, gulping with unease clear in his voice.

“One of the horses is gone too.” A maid had said a little too loudly as she rushed into the room with the important information. Everyone in the room cringed, each and every servent, perhaps at this point even the entire ton, knows if the Viscountess and one of the horses are missing, someone will either be fired or end up in the hospital.

A wave a darkness crashed through the room as John growled out “Find me who by the time I’m back from retrieving my wife.” His orders were clear as crystal as he rushed from the room, Simon, his number two following swiftly after him.

“My horse Simon.” John grunted pulling out his pocket watch from his jacket. After years of being married to you, he always knew exactly where to find you based on the time of day it was or day of the week.

You thrived in order and schedules, one of the many things that he loved about you. Loved knowing he didn’t have to worry where you’d be at eleven in the morning. Always the drawing room catching up the on stitching you’ve been putting off, frustrated when the cross stitch didn’t form the absolute way you wanted it to.

Simon, ever the loyal to a fault number two replied quickly and lowly, “Yes Viscount.” He began to rush ahead of John making it to the stables before him and barking orders at the stable boys to fetch the masters horse and saddle. Price didn’t bother with riding clothes or shoes, simply latching his everyday boot into the stirrup and hoisting himself up into his horse.

“Shall I follow My Lord?” Simon asked head bowed as usual.

“If you wish.” John didn’t stick around after that, whipping his reigns and taking off on the beautiful brown stallion. “Come on boy, we’ve not got long before it rains!” John shouted to his horse as if the creature actually understood him, though in his fear he did not care.

The looks of the sky had him worried, the last time you went riding in the rain you caught pneumonia. He remembers how you shivered, how you were covered in sweat yet cold and how you burned to the touch. He never wishes to see you that way again. These thoughts had him pushing his horse harder to get to you faster. By the cherry tree you should be, and oh does he hope you are.

You however had just become done with your rage fit and were about to leave. Stupid Miss Carmichael, one of the bitchiest women in the ton. Not even married and yet she had the gall to mock you about not getting around to giving John a child yet. Joking about possible infertility, the words made you sick as did her audacity.

You had been married to your husband two years now and yes you were yet to bore him a child. Though the first year of your marriage, due to it being a simple arrangement, you spent it away from him. Always avoiding him, even on your wedding night you locked yourself in your room.

Though finally he managed to get you to open up to him, taught you many things, you began to love him. He had loved you however since the first moment he saw you. More so when you had advertently put him in his place after he was rude to a servant.

You had spent the second year, still getting to know each other and becoming one as husband and wife didn’t happen until three months ago. It had been essentially two years of little innocent hand touches here and there, longing looks and John standing too close to you at balls and events just so he could feel your warmth and smell your scent for longer. You were both still making up for lost time, having children was not at the forefront of your minds. Well not yours anyway.

You sighed glancing at the horse you’d rode here on, you’d best get back to join John for breakfast was your first thought. Even though it would take barely a minute for him to see you were upset and demand who had made you that way. You didn’t need to put your burden on him as much as he always insisted that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do as his wife.

Blinking up at the sky, you saw rain clouds rolling in and started to feel the drizzle of water falling down from above. Then a clap of thunder and you instantly regretted your decision to ride out here after your awful interaction with Miss Carmichael earlier. “Wonderful.” You sighed annoyed as you pulled your cloak hood over your head and made your way back to the black horse waiting patiently for you. One last look at the cherry tree and you set off into the eye of the storm.

“That’s it girl yah!” You whipped your reigns, both feet tight in the stirrups. You never rode side saddle like most women do, preferring to ride properly. Just as the cherry tree was almost out of a view, the most spectacular sight came bounding toward you. Your husband Viscount John Price gallantly riding his brown steed toward you.

“Darling!” His yell was so quiet in the midst of the rain and thunder, though it was enough to have you stopping your horse and remaining stationary as he began to slow down the closer to you he got.

Pulling on the reigns John came to a halt, horses next to one another legs touching. “Before you say anything,” you began blinking up at your handsome husband who was staring down at you heatedly, he nods encouraging you to go on. “It wasn’t raining when I started riding.”

You give him a smile, and despite the fact that you’re wet through, chilled to the bone, and as far as John is concerned in desperate need of a hot bath, he thinks you’re the most beautiful sight to behold. He smiles back leaning in close to you until his nose brushes against yours, his strong hand coming up to cup your jaw as he whispers into your mouth, looking you dead in the eyes.

“I’m not mad my love, but make no mistake, once you’re warm and dry I plan to bend you over my desk and fuck you from behind. Keep you stuffed with my cum all day, then you can tell me the reason for your riding today and who I need to talk to.”

[underacalicosky]

Don't mind me, I'm just having thoughts about OWK and wondering what would've happened if Obi-Wan hadn't lit his lightsaber...

With a half dozen steps between them, Vader stops. He pulls back his shoulders, straightening his spine, relishing in the fact that he was much taller now.

“Have you come to destroy me, Obi-Wan?”

His old Master unclips the lightsaber from his belt and studies him, eyes unblinking as they scan him head to toe and back up to the expressionless black mask.

He doesn’t wait for a response. Vader ignites his meticulously constructed lightsaber, the red blade casting a crimson glow on them.

Ripples of anger, seething with the need for revenge, swirl around Vader. Then, he feels a familiar touch, a gentle poke at the scab where their bond used to be. It’s tentative. Questioning. A hint of disbelief.

Is it really you?

“Does that suit keep you warm?”

There isn’t in any malice. It’s not a taunt. He isn’t ridiculing the chamber that serves as Vader’s life support.

The violence swirling in the Force comes to a stand still.

“What?” Vader barks.

“You always found space to be too cold,” Obi-Wan says gently, a wistful expression on his aged features.

His voice is full of genuine concern and it washes over Vader, wrapping around him like the warmth of his Master’s Jedi robe whenever he shivered as they traveled through hyperspace.

“What are you doing?” Vader demands and points his blade at Obi-Wan. “Is this a game to you?”

But he’s unable to stop the way his heart stirs at the memory of Obi-Wan’s hands arranging the robe over his shoulders. Fixing the collar so that it fit snugly around Anakin’s neck to keep out the cool draft. Smiling at him fondly as his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Those same eyes stared back at him now, brimming with unshed tears.

“Anakin,” he breathes, broken and hurt. Guilt rolling off him. “I’m sorry, Anakin. For all of it.”

With bitter resentment, Vader realizes how that voice still has a grip around his heart. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to stop himself from allowing these types of feelings from invading his consciousness. Overwhelmed with sentimentality and yearning for a happiness that was in the past and forever out of reach, he’d respond to those thoughts with rage and anger, letting it fester, and allowed it fuel his hate.

Vader tries to summon that rage now, but his breath shakes with his lack of conviction. He reaches again, and the hate slips away from him.

“Your beard is unkempt,” Vader says.

A tear rolls down Obi-Wan’s face.

The last time Anakin saw him cry was on the first year anniversary after Qui-Gon’s death. His Master was sitting in his meditation pose on the floor, bathed in the sunlight that poured into their shared quarters. In his hands, Obi-Wan cradled his river stone, unaware that Anakin was behind him watching and listening silently while his Master humbly asked for strength. For clarity. For assurance that he was worthy of the responsibility to train Anakin. When Obi-Wan had finally turned and saw his Padawan, he’d swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and smiled before suggesting that they get pancakes at Dex’s.

“Look at you. Do you wear socks?,” Obi-Wan retorts. “I bet if you do, you’re still leaving them balled up on the floor, waiting for someone to pick up after you.”

At that—at the sheer audacity and gall that only Obi-Wan was capable of—Vader chuckles and it comes out a like wheeze. The sound is foreign. When was the last time he laughed?

“You’re pathetic, old man.” There’s a bite to his tone, but he extinguishes his Sith blade and watches as Obi-Wan clips his own lightsaber onto his belt.

Something tugs at Anakin, at his heart, at the tattered remnants of their bond. It pulls at him, beckoning him to surrender to the comfort and safety of a long-lost brown robe.

It’s a trick, he thinks. A distraction. A trap.

“You’re one to talk,” Obi-Wan scoffs with a sniffle.

They stand in silence as their Force signatures wrap around each other, golden waves twining and hugging.

Finally, Anakin lets go. His sob is a distorted, staticky grunt.

“Where will we go?” he asks.

“I haven’t the slightest clue,” Obi-Wan confesses and extends his hand.

With a gasp, Anakin reaches for it and clings to the hope blooming in his chest for the first time in a decade.

[mewpangxin]

I have a brainrot because Riddle's mother looks like the type to force him into an arranged engagement since she knows what's best for him or so she claims to be (He assures you, she doesn't) ಠ_ಠ. I wonder what he'd do. Maybe he's gonna be polite on the surface and secretly he will try to subtly tell this woman he was not interested in her because he likes someone else aka you readers. Plot twist, this girl his guardian showed has been downright indecent.

She even TOOK his belongings, has no respect that he doesn't enjoy physical contact. It's got to the point where he doesn't want to remain in the charade.

The most unforgettable part was his strawberry tarts was swiped out of his grasp. The gall she had...!

Had it not been because he was taught to handle and treat ladies with care, he'd have collared her for it.

He was angry. VERY. Who does she think she is???

Piteous. Usually he would have lost his patience already, somehow he didn't yet or that could be because he had you to talk and vent to about her.

He solved by going back to his behaviors during his pre-overblot. He'd be harsh, chiding her with no faking. He would be unyielding about everything.

“You can't remember 810 rules produced by The Queen Of Hearts?! You are not fit to my standards.”

Ironically, the one he adores also can't. It wasn't as if he would admit to people in his house though.

“Fix your hair. And your stance. We'll go through this until you're less vulgar. Have you no manners?”

Mrs. Rosehearts did not approve, nevertheless what could she do? If he was intent on staying like this.

Luckily it was called off.

The said person did not wish to continue.

Because — she thought he was not 'princely' as she had hoped he would be to her. He digress, he was from Night Raven College, a school for villains.

Besides, why would he agree to a loveless affairs?

He wouldn't mind being a little bad if that's what he has to do to have a life where he could be with you.

[geekgirles]

The Interracial Wedding: Amalia's Convictions VS. Aurora's Hypocrisy

The more I think about it, the more convinced I am ToT never really intended for Aurora and her father to come across as having the moral high ground beyong Amalia's distrust of them causing her to jump the gun and suspect them of poisoning Yugo.

There are simply no instances where they are shown to be in the right aside from Amalia prematurely accusing them of trying to assassinate her husband and going after them.

In this particular case, what I want to discuss is Aurora's reaction to the Sadida/Eliatrope wedding from chapter 6 and how it reflects how little she actually knows about Sadida traditions, using every opportunity to try and smear Amalia's name without knowing what's really going on.

First things first, we have already discussed the sheer hypocrisy upon finding out about the interracial marriage and her outraged, almost disgusted reaction to it.

Said hypocrisy hinging on the fact that she is an Osamodas who had an arranged marriage with a Sadida, meaning she is the last person with any right to complain about Amalia allowing two different races to marry. Although it is true her problem seems to be less about it being an interracial marriage and more about the fact that the bride is an Eliatrope.

As per usual, we were never given an actual reason as to why she would hate the Eliatropes. Only being implied that she hates them solely because Armand hated them too and she has no agency or ability to make her own judgements, unrelated to the opinions of the men in her life. Thus, she greatly resents Amalia for seemingly allowing outsiders in despite how Armand, supposedly, would have never done such a thing.

(It's true he was adamant on not welcoming the Eliatropes after meeting their goddess, but given he, despite everything, still had a sense of honour and actually valued his sister's opinion, who knows? Hadn't he died, he might have actually rewarded the Eliatropes for their help, after all. Though this is just speculation on my part...)

Having said that, even if Aurora were trying to protect Armand's legacy, it still doesn't change the fact that this is coming from the same person who not only intended to rule the Sadida even without her husband despite being an Osamodas and, therefore, an outsider; but who actually brought her father, an even bigger outsider, with her to rule the Sadida by her side and raise the kid.

The very same person who values a random bat much more than the people she's supposed to serve and look after, as opposed to her husband, who actually gave his life in order to protect his kingdom.

But I digress.

The point is, hypocrisy.

However, what really seals the deal is her reaction to seeing the Sadida/Eliatrope wedding, more importantly, what she thinks of Amalia for it.

Regardless of whether Armand would have approved or not, Aurora's real issue seems to be that Amalia is allowing such a thing to happen despite her not approving of her ascension to power. More importantly, she resents the way she's managed to foster positive relationships between the Sadidas and the Eliatropes in such a short amount of time, and what it implies.

But as the above frames show, what really gets under her skin is Amalia's perceived hypocrisy. What she says about Amalia boasting about Sadida traditions despite going against Armand's supposed wishes (that last part is me reading between the lines) seems to imply these two have clashed over whether Aurora adhered to Sadida customs or not.

After all, while Amalia did indeed tell Yugo that Aurora was an outsider unfit to rule the kingdom due to not knowing anything about their customs, that was never brought up when the two women were in the same room. Instead, Amalia focused on the actual elephant in the room: the fact that they left them at the mercy of the Nécromes yet still have the gall to demand she hand over the throne.

Meaning they probably argued about Aurora not being fit to rule offscreen during the time between the OVAs and season 3. Otherwise, this comment just simply wouldn't make sense, as Amalia had never really boasted about her people's traditions before and, both until and during season 4, actually tried to be cordial towards her sister-in-law.

But most importantly, the way Aurora says this line implies she views Amalia as the hypocrite. If my theory is right and they indeed came to blows over Aurora not following the Sadida way of life, then it seems as she is taking Amalia welcoming the Eliatropes personally.

Something along the lines of "So I have to respect your culture but you can put your husband's people first?"

However, as we already hinted at early on, that's not really what's going on, is it?

If you look closely at this frame, then it becomes glaringly obvious that at no point in time is Amalia placing the Eliatropes before her own people and culture. Neither is Yugo, as a matter of fact.

First of all, Amalia is the one officiating the ceremony, not Yugo. He seems to be there simply to give his blessing as King of the Eliatropes and to support his wife like chapter 1 said he'd been doing since they got married and she ascended to the throne.

Then, there's the fact that Amalia is reading from what appears to be the Sadida equivalent of the Bible or, at least, an important ceremonial document. It's not as easy to see in this frame, but that book looks more like a flower with words written on its petals than an actual leather-bound tome.

And, last but not least, it's the actual ceremony:

To complete the wedding, instead of exchanging rings like Eva and Pinpin did (or, well, brass knuckles, in their case...), Amalia conjures up a flower that the groom must put on his bride's hair before they can share their first kiss as husband and wife. And then they're married.

Let's recap, okay?

Amalia is the one officiating the wedding, not Yugo.

The ceremony seems to follow Sadida guidelines.

The groom must present his bride with a flower before they're officially declared husband and wife...

Guys, it literally cannot get any more Sadida than that!

Seriously, Amalia and Yugo's own wedding was much more unconventional, compared to this. In theirs, there were at least portals!

So, what does this tell us?

Simple. It tells us that regardless of what that old Sadida from chapter 2 and Aurora say, Amalia is not going against Sadida tradition or giving the Eliatropes special treatment just because she welcomed them into her kingdom. In fact, she is still putting her people first, as the wedding shows their culture remains the predominant one (which can be either because the Eliatropes don't remember much of their own or because the bride and groom actually agreed on having a Sadida wedding; as always, that's only speculation).

Moreover, it shows Yugo is perfectly content with this. His main concerns being his people's safety and well-being and supporting Amalia without any ulterior motive, unlike the Osamodas and Aurora's political marriage to Armand.

Finally, I'd like to mention a point made by my good friend @alittlebookdust: the fact that Aurora fails to recognise Amalia isn't actually turning her back on her people's customs or Armand's legacy already implies she herself was never familiar with said customs to begin with. Either that, or she is just desperate to find fault in Amalia's way of doing things and feels compelled to criticise everything she does solely because she hates her.

Nevertheless, what this chapter proves is that despite the similar position she and Armand were in due to marrying outsiders, Amalia's actions are actually anything but hypocritical. As, unlike Aurora and her father, she has always remained true to her convictions and put her kingdom first without purposely harming her husband's.

(Thanks once again to @cocogum for the screenshots used in this analysis).

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today, on August 24th, 1975 – Queen Story!

Queen starts recording ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ at Rockfield studio’s in Galles.

🔸THE DAY QUEEN BEGAN RECORDING THEIR MASTERPIECE, ‘BOHEMIAN RHAPSODY’

- Ultimate Classic Rock, August 24, 2015

by Eduardo Rivadavia

If you were to write a history of the recording studio and, specifically, its usefulness as a laboratory for musicians' most ambitious creations, then an entire chapter might well be devoted to "Bohemian Rhapsody." The members of Queen began recording the song on Aug. 24, 1975, redefining the known limits of popular music in the process.

Suffice to say that, whatever Chuck Berry had in mind when he asked Beethoven to roll over, "Bohemian Rhapsody"'s jaw-dropping pastiche of rock and opera sure wasn't it. But then, Queen's flamboyant and unpredictable brand of art rock had been simultaneously stumping and amazing all those who'd heard it well before "Bohemian Rhapsody" came along. It continually morphed over the first three albums of the group's career, until 1974's Sheer Heart Attack started connecting all the dots.

During the first months of 1975, Queen toured the U.S. as headliners for the first time (alternately supported by Styx and Kansas), making their first trip to Japan (where they received a Beatlemania-type reception), and, in singer Freddie Mercury's case, receiving the prestigious Ivor Novello Award for his work on "Killer Queen."

All of these accomplishments no doubt boosted the band's confidence (and courage) as they started working on new material, both in unison and individually, for the album they would soon name A Night at the Opera. This was to be produced by their engineer Roy Thomas Baker, and it's safe to say neither band nor producer could have guessed what Mercury had up his sleeve as he started cobbling together both new ideas and spare song parts he'd been lugging around for years in the privacy of his Kensington apartment.

According to Baker, in an interview with Sound on Sound, his first inkling of what was in store only came when he visited Queen's singer at his home, and Mercury first played him "Bohemian Rhapsody"'s initial ballad section, concluding it by casually quipping, "And this is where the opera section comes in!" Mercury, Taylor and the other members of Queen -- guitarist Brian May, bassist John Deacon and drummer Roger Taylor -- then entered the studio following three weeks of rehearsal to help bring Freddie's madcap magnum opus to life.

Together, the foursome and their studio hands spent as much time arranging, re-arranging, adding, subtracting, and adding some more to "Bohemian Rhapsody"'s bulk as most bands of the time spent on entire albums. In the end, Mercury's central ballad wound up preceded by one of Queen's patented, multi-tracked a capella choirs and was followed by a tasteful solo from May, a minute-long opera section, then a heavy metal instrumental passage and finally a reprise of the core melody, fading gently back into wherever it came from.

All these years later, it's the song's operatic climax that remains its most stunning, almost superhuman, accomplishment, as it required them to clock as 10-to-12 hour days over a three-week period. They reportedly needed nearly 200 vocal overdubs in order to flesh out an entire choir. And then, when they were finally done, their label EMI was, to put it mildly, quite unimpressed.

Although, to be fair, the suits' reasons were typically business-oriented, as "Bohemian Rhapsody's" edged close to the six-minute mark, well beyond the limit favored by commercial radio. Instead, the label suggested they release Deacon's excellent "You're My Best Friend" as first single from A Night at the Opera, but Queen wouldn't hear of it, and it only took a moment for the immediate support of DJs across Britain to prove EMI wrong.

Released in the U.K. on Oct. 31, 1975, "Bohemian Rhapsody" would be No. 1 by Christmas and then hold the spot for nine weeks. Its commercial fortunes were undoubtedly helped by the pioneering music video shot by Queen to stand in for them on Top of the Pops while they were already back on tour by the time they were invited to appear. Meanwhile, their single was also on its way to No. 1 in Canada, New Zealand, the Netherlands and Belgium, earning Top 10 honors in multiple other countries and peaking at No. 9 in America, where it eventually became a million-seller.

"Bohemian Rhapsody" stands as one of the best-selling songs in rock history, prone to repeat visits to global charts anytime it is revived for a movie, commercial or other event, and frankly unique as nothing since has come close to matching its sheer heights of excess, bravura, and, oh yeah, inspiration.

(Source ↘️ https://ultimateclassicrock.com/queen-bohemian-rhapsody/)

📸 Pic: 1975 - Recording 'A Night At The Opera' album with co- producer Roy Thomas Baker

[catboydogma]

give the world away/wake up lonely

codywan week 2024 sol master list (solsterlist)

codywan week 2024 day 3 prompts, sol edition: soulmate au, after the war

notes: this is riffing off the quinlan/fox soulmates au i did a while back. if you haven't read that one, you don't have to; the gist of it is that soulmates can't lie to each other. for our resident guys who love lying above any other favored pastime or hobby, this presents a Number of Problems. canon timelines? there is no canon timeline here. tcw is my sandbox and baby i have started cultivating a bed of beautiful plants native to arid regions. title from crowd surf off a cliff by emily haines & the soft skeleton.

wc: 2,206

cross-posted to ao3

This was, admittedly, a somewhat inauspicious first meeting. Obi-Wan had been shipped back to Coruscant post-capture by Ventress for surgery and a recovery time that was cut much too short by politics, of all things. Entirely miffed by this shitshow, Obi-Wan had made his complaints clear to the Council. And Bail. And Padmé. And the beleaguered young Healer they’d had attending him. Yes, he might often leave medical before his sentence was up, but that was on his terms. To have his affairs arranged by some perfect stranger instead, in the name of the war effort? Oh, the utter fucking gall of these people.

Alpha-17 was recovering on Kamino, at least. Obi-Wan had gotten away light, relatively speaking. He’d said as much to Vokara Che, and she’d made the most fascinating expression at him.

In his absence, the 212th had been headed by some interim Admiral of the Navy and the new Commander. They were already engaged clear across the Rim, and so Obi-Wan was shipped back out in another transport with a contingent of transfers rotating out from the Coruscant Guard. By the time they dropped out of hyperspace at the back end of the venator, the battle was over and cleanup had commenced.

Obi-Wan was sore, he wanted a proper shower with the desperation of an alcoholic approaching the three-month mark, and to top it all off, his trick knee was acting up again from all the time spent sitting around in the transport. Obi-Wan was not the sort to take advantage of his position either as a High General or a Jedi Master, but really, couldn’t they have given him a transport bigger than a bloody Pathfinder?

Bag slung over one shoulder, Obi-Wan located his—allegedly temporary—cane and tried his best not to limp too visibly. The hangar of the venator was busy with white- and gold-painted troopers, only a few in dress greys cutting back and forth through the bustle. Whoever was running this operation, they were doing it well; even with the distraction Obi-Wan and his entourage presented, few troopers were distracted from their own tasks.

“At ease,” Obi-Wan said, after he’d saluted the squad of troopers waiting to greet him. The Command Corps, with only a handful of familiar signatures. The casualty rate directly after Obi-Wan and Alpha-17’s capture had… suffered. “I am Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. Commander Fox sends his regards.” He’d said something quite a bit more rude, but Obi-Wan wasn’t about to repeat that to a perfect stranger, brothers they may be.

“Clone Marshal Commander 2224,” his Commander replied. Alpha-17 referred to this one as Cody in their little catch-up holocall before Obi-Wan had been deployed again. He’d followed it up with “that little shit” and other things at once less complimentary and more affectionate. Obi-Wan, after taking a few days to parse through the backhanded compliments and veiled praise that Alpha-17 liked to communicate in, had taken this to mean that his new Commander was highly skilled, exceedingly competent, and smarter than all the Navy personnel aux staff. Combined. That, and he had a sense of humor imparted to him directly by Alpha-17.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Obi-Wan said, shaking the Commander’s hand in a firm grip. Professional. Brief. He opened his mouth again to say something about how he looked forward to working with the 212th and a great many more successful engagements, and the words stopped up his throat. Obi-Wan discreetly cleared his throat and—

“Oh, no,” Obi-Wan said instead, an entirely honest display of dismay breaking out. No, no, no, no, this could not be happening.

The Commander’s hand tightened on his. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“What’s your name, if I may, Commander?” Obi-Wan asked, belatedly releasing his hand.

A static fuzz split the air as the Commander stuttered on—something. His serial, Obi-Wan suspected. Which… would have been a lie, if the Commander did not truly consider his serial to be his name.

“Heck,” the Commander said. He pulled his helmet off and flipped it over to tuck under an arm in one smooth motion, mouth slightly agape as he stared at Obi-Wan.

He was a handsome man, his Commander. Very handsome. In the back of his head, Obi-Wan thought he might be hearing howling laughter that sounded a bit too much like Alpha-17.

“Quite,” Obi-Wan said. “Ah… I suppose we’re due for a walk-around. But, after, perhaps, if you might… show me to my quarters, and we can have a, ah… more informal debriefing?” Force, but he hadn’t stuttered like this since Qui-Gon had tried to guilt him into taking care of one of his notoriously finicky bonsais.

His Commander was silent for a moment. Testing the bounds of their new… constraints, Obi-Wan suspected. Finally, he said: “I’d like that.”

…two years later, after the war:

“That Sith is lucky he’s already dead,” Cody snarled up at the ceiling.

Obi-Wan patted Cody’s hand and tried to suppress the feeling that he was about to be an accessory to a hideously violent crime. “How’s your nausea, then? Manageable?”

Cody snarled something incoherent. Perhaps he’d tried for a “fine” or even a bold “utterly negligible.” Obi-Wan was not the most empathic Jedi, instead sitting—like many things in his life—at a comfortably average level of Force empathy. Yet even he could feel the waves of sick vertigo and queasiness washing over Cody every few minutes. After a moment of muttering and another moment of grimly, doggedly swallowing as another wave of nausea broke over him, Cody gave Obi-Wan a baleful, sweaty glare. “Stop asking me questions.”

“My brave Commander,” Obi-Wan said, digging his thumbs into the base of Cody’s thumb and the joint of his wrist.

The medics had concocted two different ways to disable the inhibitor chips that Lieutenant Fives had uncovered—surgery or injection. The series of vaccines was a clever combination of medical nanotechnology originally developed to fight against deep-rooted viral infections and a biotechnological approach to ensure that the body’s systems were able to quickly and safely break down the chip from the inside, piggybacking off local immune response.

Their results could not be denied. Both approaches were as safe as they could be, with an astonishingly low mortality or mishap rate. The immune response, however, was… somewhat vicious. Obi-Wan had been able to glean that Cody was getting off relatively light; he’d just the muscle aches and nausea, but no fever, and he had yet to actually vomit anything up. Whether that was due to his body having a good response, or Cody’s own iron self-discipline… well, who was really to say.

“Can’t imagine the company’s all that right now,” Cody muttered. His jaw worked furiously and he leaned his head back against the pillows of his medical cot.

Obi-Wan hummed and worked his way up Cody’s forearm, measuring his pulse with two fingers pressed into the soft inside of Cody’s elbow. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be, right now. Until you tell me to fuck off, I shall continue to remain right here.”

“Fuck—nhgghk—fuck… you,” Cody hissed.

Ah, Obi-Wan’s love was such a romantic. He only felt a little bad about trapping Cody in a proverbial corner, but if Cody truly wanted him to leave, then he could say so. Until then… well. It wasn’t like Cody could lie to him. Obi-Wan tried not to look quite so smug, but with Cody’s hand spasming on his arm like he was imagining strangling Obi-Wan, perhaps he wasn’t as successful as he’d thought.

“Only twelve more hours,” Obi-Wan said, soothing. He smoothed a hand up Cody’s bicep and started in on his shoulders, finding knots of tension and digging in deep to ease them out. With the persistent muscle aches, these knots would likely be back in a matter of hours, if that. But if Obi-Wan could do something to help Cody, as small as it could be, he was going to do it.

“You should go,” Cody rasped, eyes closed and brow furrowed. His shoulder spasmed under Obi-Wan’s hand, sweat-slick skin and hard muscle shifting painfully.

Hm. Well. That hadn’t been what Obi-Wan had planned. He pressed the back of his hand to Cody’s forehead. No fever; the sweats and shakes, a little warm from lying in bed, but nothing concerning. Fighting to keep his voice neutral, Obi-Wan asked, “And do you want me to go?”

Cody gritted his teeth, lips peeling back in a snarl. He started and stopped in the middle of half a dozen words. “It doesn’t matter what I want. You should leave.”

Obi-Wan’s heart seized in his chest, something toothier than grief coming to settle behind his breastbone. Sometimes the inability to lie to one’s soulmate was a blessing, if a complicated one. Sometimes… sometimes it meant that when Cody said such a thing, Obi-Wan knew to his bones that Cody truly believed it. “Yes, it matters very much what you want,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even but not gentle. Cody so hated to be “coddled,” in his words. Obi-Wan, who could tease out the truth, knew that Cody didn’t necessarily want to be treated gently or handled with care—he simply wanted to be treated like he was precious. Like he meant something to someone.

“And,” Obi-Wan continued, when it seemed like no more was forthcoming from Cody and he was no longer fighting to keep the wobble out of his own voice, “unless and until you say ‘Obi-Wan, my precious love, papple of my eye and light of my galaxy, I want you to leave me alone,’ I shall be remaining by your side.”

Cody’s face screwed up. It looked terrifyingly like he might cry. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure what he would do if Cody started crying, other than start sobbing alongside him.

“What if the chip activates?” Cody finally bit out, sounding like the words had been carved out of him. “I read the brief on Fray’s procedure. And Longshot’s. And—and I could. I might—you don’t—want to see me. Like this. I—” Cody heaved for breath, eyes gone glassy and the sinews of his throat standing in high relief with tension. “—I can’t. If something happens, I can’t. If the chip activates and I—lose myself—it’s.” Cody cursed, as vile as anything Obi-Wan had ever heard him use.

Obi-Wan firmly laced his fingers between Cody’s and checked his vambrace with his free hand. It must be terrifying to know that you might kill those you held most dear. But the chips didn’t activate with a specific order—Fray’s had activated on Order 37: mass arrest and execute the local civilian population to capture a wanted individual. The poor trooper had almost killed a pair of orderlies with his own bootlaces. Longshot’s had… well. They were yet lucky to still have the trooper with them, but he would have to be carefully monitored in the next few weeks to make sure he didn’t suffer clotting in the vessels of his neck or a stroke. But with a full one hundred and fifty orders, the chance that Cody’s would activate in the first place was slim, let alone land on the one that would have him trying to kill Obi-Wan.

And yet… this wasn’t a scenario where likelihoods and statistics would help. Obi-Wan squeezed Cody’s hand, then showed him the screen embedded into his vambrace. A med droid had sent him an update on the progress of Cody’s procedure, showing a near-incomprehensible feed of the nanites as they disabled what remained of Cody’s chip.

“You’re well past the threshold for the chip activating successfully,” Obi-Wan told him. “And I always want to see you, Cody. I especially want to be here while you’re fighting through this. You won’t lose yourself. You’re already past the worst of it. I know you can hang on for a little while longer, and there’s no part of you that I would turn away from.” He raised Cody’s hand to kiss the back of it, lips pressed carefully to Cody’s scarred and calloused knuckles. “There is no part of you that could make me turn away.” He would repeat it as many times as Cody would let him.

“I don’t want to wake up someone different,” Cody rasped. But he didn’t pull away from Obi-Wan, and he let Obi-Wan smooth a hand over his curls and press a kiss to the space between his brows.

“I’ll keep an eye on the chip,” Obi-Wan promised. With a rueful smile, chest still aching, he echoed Cody’s own oft-repeated line back at him: “When have I ever let you down?”

“Never,” Cody murmured, face tightening as one—or perhaps several—of his muscles spasmed and locked up. He looked exhausted, riding the line between unconsciousness and apprehension.

“Just so. You’ll be alright,” Obi-Wan promised. “And I’ll be here.”

With that, Cody finally let himself slip into sleep, mind partially quieting. The fear was still there, as well as a biting edge of self-recrimination and dread-heavy resignation. Obi-Wan kept a bit of his awareness on the chip through the Force, monitoring it carefully. They would get through this safe and whole, and Obi-Wan would not suffer any other option.

[phoenix-king-ozai]

The most surprising thing about the comics is that Ozai didn't just kill Ursa after Azulon died. Seriously they don't like each other and it surprises Ozai didn't just toss Ursa under the bus to try and make his accession look legit and framing her as the sole culprit to kill two birds with one stone. He already has heirs, Ursa is legit useless to him at this point.

It makes me feel they had no idea what to do with her character so they made up a new backstory. It surprises they didn't go the easy route of Ozai simply killing her after Azulon died to try and cover himself.

Obviously, the comic writers Yang and Co didn’t want Ursa to be killed because they wanted her to have her “happy ending”with their OC character called Ikea excuse me Ikem. Despite having to abandon her children and lose her original face and memories. It would had been better if Ursa hid at Ba Sing Se or Yu Dao a Fire Nation Colony instead of Hira’a her home village that Ozai would be able to assassinate her easily from.

Ursa should have been hunted by Yuyan Archer or Combustion Man due to her being an assassin and knowing the true nature of Fire Lord Azulon’s death of a rather successful assassination by posion. Which was also stupid writing wise given Firebenders strong resistance to posion even in old age as shown by Iroh and the White Jade Tea.

However, Azulon’s death was much more believable due to his immensely old age whereas Ursa being a woman in the prime years of her life would not be. Many of the daimyo lords of the prefectures of the Fire Nation would be EXTREMELY skeptical of Ursa’s death given that she is not a warrior.

Honestly, the biggest and stupidest mistake on the writers part was Ikem surviving after confronting Fire Lord Azulon’s carriage to take Ursa back. Azulon or Ozai’s soliders should had executed this peasant commoner for daring to threaten the Fire Nation Royal Family at all. What gall and arrogance! Nor should Ozai given into Ursa desire to spare his life. Ozai doesn’t know or care about Ursa at all! She is just a eugenics experiment for the Fire Sage and his father the Fire Lord. In fact Ozai should have burned Ikem to ashes for daring to point his wooden sword at his father and Fire Lord.

Obviously, the comic writers took the stereotypical route of making Ursa a victim of a forced arranged marriage where Ursa is kept from her true love by an evil domineering abusive man. 🙄😒 Despite, the ATLA creators stating that Ozai and Ursa had a good relationship earlier during their marriage.

[tellmealovestory]

Apple Cider

Summary: First dates are supposed to be fun. So why's this one such a disaster?

Warnings: 3k words of second hand embarrassment and an awkward reader and Eddie.

Spooktober Masterlist

“You’re being a dingus. Ask her out already or I will,” Robin threatens as she flips through a magazine she’s barely interested in, but it’s better than watching you and Eddie steal glances at each other across the store. 

Eddie leans his elbows on the counter, head hanging in his hands as he sighs. “Not that simple. She could say no. She could already have a boyfriend. She could think-”

“That you're a creep coming in here every day staring at her and not saying a word to her?” Robin asks unhelpfully as she glances up from her magazine just long enough to catch the glare Eddie is giving her. 

Halfway across the store as you’re trying to help a nasally voiced man pick out a selection of movies you can hear their conversation. Neither one of them understands the definition of indoor voices or private conversations and if you weren’t so polite or so afraid of talking to Eddie for fear of making an idiot out of yourself you’d tell them to shut up. 

This is a place of work after all. Sure, the store is empty save for the four of you, but that’s not the point. Your lack of a dating life isn’t up for discussion in front of strangers or your crush. 

“I guess this will do,” the man says as if he’s disappointed you couldn’t be more help trying to find a movie that was scary, but not too scary, but that had a little bit of gore, but not so much gore it would make his date queasy, but it also had to be recent, nothing old or black and white. 

While he carries his selections up to the counter and Robin checks out the movies for him you pretend to busy yourself with straightening the vhs cases while occasionally glancing over at Eddie still hanging around the counter.

The bell over the door rings signaling his exit and when no one else comes in Robin calls you over. Your throat is drier than sandpaper and your feet feel like they’re encased in blocks of cement as you slowly make your way to the counter. 

“Dingus here wants to ask you, but he’s too scared to, so I'm doing it for him.”

“Robin,” Eddie seethes with anger as your own voice melds with him chastising her for this inappropriate behavior. 

“What?” she asks, not having the gall to look the slightest bit embarrassed despite Eddie’s pink cheeks and your refusal to look at either of them instead choosing to stare down at your shoes which suddenly look interesting to you. “Eddie the dingus here will pick you up tomorrow after your shift. You guys can go to the fall carnival and I don’t know trying talking to each other for once.”

“Robin,” you start, voice shaking as you dare a few peeks at Eddie through your lashes. He looks just as mortified as you do at this new development. “You can’t just… you can’t do something like that.” 

Eddie’s heart sinks to his stomach when he catches you flinching and he naturally assumes it’s because you don’t actually like him because after all why would the town sweetheart go for someone like the town freak? 

Robin waves away your concerns, shoos Eddie out the door, but not before yelling at him what time your shift is over. 

He stays on your mind for the rest of the day and night and even into the next day. When your shift ends and he still hasn’t arrived to pick you up for the date Robin arranged you figure he’s not showing. A mix of disappointment and anger settle in the pit of your stomach and as you slip your vest off and grab your purse beneath the counter the bell over the door jingles and Robin is whistling lowly. 

You figure it’s just Steve so you don’t bother to look up as you root around for your car keys. She nudges you and says in a too loud whisper because she still doesn’t know what indoor voices mean, “loverboy is here.” 

You glance up and true to her word there stands Eddie, hands shoved deep in his pockets, black tee shirt and jean jacket on, unruly hair pulled back into a low bun, cheeks flushed and sheepish smile on his face.

Instantly, you regret cursing him out in your mind for thinking he wasn’t going to show. Sure, he was a little late, but he did show up and now that he’s here, standing on the other side of the counter watching you it’s like you’ve forgotten every word you’ve ever known. 

Robin leans her elbow on the counter watching you too and she can’t help but shove you towards him. Her push is harder and you stumble, having to catch yourself on the counter so you don’t stumble into him like a bowling ball hitting a set of pins. 

“Have fun you two!” She shouts, “and remember, talk to each other!” 

Once outside in the warm sunshine you finally find the words to speak, but when you do your voice is soft and you’re worried he can’t hear you. “I’m so sorry about her. We don’t have to do this. Go to the carnival. Or even out. I mean… I know she kind of pushed you into this…” 

“No,” he says quickly, finally pulling his hands out of his pockets. He plays with his keys, jingling them as the silver glints in the bright sunshine. “I want to. Less you don’t want to.” 

“No!” Your shout of no is even quicker and louder than his and you duck your head down in embarrassment before repeating the word again, softer this time while assuring him you want this. Turning your head to the side and over your shoulder you see Robin joined with Steve now standing at the  window of Family Video mouthing what you think are the words ‘go’ and ‘talk’ while Robin points to the van and Steve is making kissing faces.

Eddie smiles and it helps to ease a little bit of your nerves of whatever this is, a first date, a hang out, a friendly trip to the fall carnival. “You uh wanna go then?” He lifts the keys up and jingles them again and when you nod your head you’re surprised to find him opening the passenger door van for you. It’s such a simple and kind gesture, but it sends your heart galloping and your feelings for him to intensify. 

He slides into the van and starts it up and your ears nearly burst with how loud he has the music playing. “Shit, shit, shit, sorry, I know it’s loud,” he mutters as if he can read your mind. His long fingers are fumbling over the buttons on the stereo and instead of turning the volume knob down he cranks it up even louder as the banging of drums and cymbals clashes like you’re sitting front row at a metal concert. “Fuck.” He jabs the on/off button and you’re plunged into total silence save for the sound of his heavy breathing.

He offers another apology as he scrubs a hand over his face and mutters, “maybe we’ll just keep that off, yeah?” 

You giggle and tell him sure because truthfully his music taste isn’t the same as yours and you’re hoping that in the silence you can take Robin’s advice and talk.

But the drive to the festival is silent save for a few curses from Eddie when someone cuts him off in traffic and then again when he takes a wrong turn to the grounds and ends up on a muddy road that he nearly gets the vans tires stuck in. 

Once he manages to get where he’s supposed to and parks he opens your door again and your heart picks back up that happy rhythm it had when he did it the first time.

Beginning a leisurely stroll towards the entrance gate there’s enough space between your bodies to have another couple standing between you. For the life of you you aren’t sure how close you’re supposed to stand to him and something so simple that most people don’t think about shouldn’t be stressing you out this much. Stand close enough to hold hands? To have his jean jacket rubbing against your soft sweater? To have his arm slung around your shoulders? Why is it so complicated? 

While your mind is turning over that question your other senses become overwhelmed when you enter the festival grounds. Screams are emitted from some of the carnival rides, couples and families walk around with oversized teddy bears in their arms, kids run around playing tag. And the smells. Oh, the smells are enough to make your mouth water and your stomach to grumble.

Corn on the cob is being sizzled to perfection on grills. Cinnamon and apples and every deep fried food imaginable is being cooked to perfection from red and white striped tents. Hamburgers and brats are being served to hungry customers and you even smell what you think are greasy onion rings and french fries.

There’s a little something for everyone here. 

Booths with lines around the corner for face paintings and a fortune teller, a big wooden barrel where a few people are bobbing for apples, balloon dart games, even a few businesses handing out cards and offering promotions. 

“Have you ever been here before?” you ask, eyes scanning and trying to take everything in.

“Naw. Not really my scene,” he says with a simple shrug of his shoulders, but when he sees your face fall he silently curses himself for saying something so stupid. “But uh I’m glad to be here with you.” 

It sounds forced to your ears and you’re about to tell him that you can leave, go find something else to do or maybe just call this a day because nothing seems to be working out. 

Instead of doing that though you continue the walk through checking out the booths and the rides and because it’s more crowded here than in the parking lot you’re both forced a little closer together. Each time his arm or elbow or leg brushes up against yours you get a little jolt of electricity that you try to tamp down because you’re still not sure if he even likes you or wants to be here with you. 

A group of rowdy kids screams red rover as they barrel into you causing you to stumble and nearly trip a few feet in front of Eddie. Not your finest move, but at least you didn’t fall flat on your face. 

He touches your shoulder gently and when you turn around his eyes are wide, cheeks flushed a little deeper pink, reminiscent of a gorgeous summer sunset and when he drops his hand he starts gesturing to your body. You glance down and don’t see any dirt or food on the front of your skirt and sweater, but his hand gestures are growing more urgent, lowering down and you still have no clue what he’s trying to tell you. 

“You uh… those kids…” he swallows thickly before just blurting it out. “You’ve got some cotton candy uh behind you.” 

It takes your brain a few seconds to figure out what he’s trying to tell you, but when you slide your hands down your lower back and to your butt your fingers come away with sticky pastel cotton candy. “Oh my god,” you whisper as your cheeks heat up and you frantically try to push it all away, but it’s so much stickier than when you remember as a kid and it seems like with each sweep of your fingers and hands all you’re doing is creating a bigger mess.

You don’t want to, but you slowly turn around so your back is to him and glance over your shoulder. “Is it all gone?” 

His knitted eyebrows and mouth turn down into a frown that tells you no, not exactly. 

“Can I uh? Do you mind?” Again with the hand gestures. His silver rings glint in the sunshine and you nod your head. The first touch of his hands against your lower ass makes you jump and flinch and he steps back, hands in the air in surrender and once again you’re feeling stupid and naive. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you say quickly, head hanging down, wondering if you should tell him this is your first date and you’ve barely even kissed a guy so it’s just a little strange for one to be brushing your ass. 

There’s a food vendor a few feet away and you stomp over to grab probably more napkins than you need as you try to rub at the sticky mess, but you’re only spreading it wider and you’re close to tears because seriously how much worse can this day get before you shove a wad in his hands. “Can you help, please?” 

“Yeah, yeah, just uh, hold still, kay?” This time you’re more prepared for his touches. They’re gentle, methodical and though it’s not perfect he’s managed to pick off most of the cotton candy. With your back still turned to him you quickly wipe at your eyes as he tosses the napkins in the garbage. 

You resume your walking in silence with a few stolen glances here and there, a few times you both get jostled together by impatient people frustrated at your slow pace. 

Stopping in front of a drink tent your mouth waters when you inhale the spice of cinnamon and apples. Reaching in your purse for your wallet Eddie beats you to it, grabbing his own as he pays for two cups of piping hot cider. 

“You didn’t have to-” 

“I don’t mind-”

You’re both trying to talk over one another and it’s not working and so you give up, choosing instead to offer him a small smile as thank you. 

The paper cup is hot against your palms, but it still feels nice against the slight chill that’s entered the air. There’s an empty bench up ahead and Eddie nods his head towards it and you agree. Glancing down at the seat to make sure there’s nothing else that can be spilled on your outfit you perch on the edge, blow on the cider before taking a slow sip as you let out a quiet moan. 

Eddie nearly chokes on his own sip when he hears you because he was not expecting that to come out of your mouth and now that he has he can’t stop staring at you and jesus Robin was right he’s being a downright creep. It’s a miracle you agreed to this set up. 

For a few moments you both bask in each other's company and in the festivities that are going on around you, but it doesn’t take long for even this peaceful moment to be broken by the buzzing of a wasp. 

“Shit,” Eddie mutters. He’s not scared of too many things, but wasps? Fuck those devil monsters. He swats it away, but it’s still buzzing around first by his cup of apple cider and then closer to yours. You don’t notice it and when you lift the cup up to your mouth he acts first, thinks later. 

His large hand swats the cup out of your hand, still hot cider splashing down around by your feet, the cup yards away from you. You’re shocked, mouth hanging open, eyes blinking dumbly at him and as if to somehow make up for what he just did or because he’s an awkward idiot who’s hopeless around pretty girls he also throws his cup to the ground. 

The wasp that had been buzzing around you both is now distracted by the spilled sugary drink and it’s then that you notice it, but that still doesn’t explain his behavior and the silence is stretching on and oh my god how much worse could this date get? 

“Sorry,” he mutters and he at least has the decency to look a little embarrassed for tossing your drinks to the ground. “Wasps scare the shit out of me.” He ends it with a little chuckle and despite how awful the day has been you’re soon joining in and giggling with him as you hang your head in your hands. 

“They scare me too,” you admit softly before adding, “I didn’t even see it. Or hear it. And to think I almost drank it!” You give a little shudder at just how close that thing was to your mouth and sure, maybe it was a little dramatic the way Eddie chose to deal with it, but given the way your day has been going it fits in. 

“Naw, I’d never have let you drink it,” he says, giving you a lopsided smile and for a few seconds you think maybe this could be salvaged, but when the damn demon wasp finishes with the spilled cider it makes another go at the two of you and Eddie is quick to jump up with you following his lead as you make another loop around the carnival grounds.

Tugging at the sleeve of your sweater you sigh and glance at him. “Maybe that’s a sign we should cut this date short.” You don’t want to, but nothing seems to be going right and as your words hang in the air you realize what you just said and you’re staring at him with an open mouth and wide eyes as you try to clarify. “Not that… I mean I’m not sure this was even a date? I know it was kind of forced on us and I guess I always thought that a first date was supposed to be nice and not one disaster after another. It’s been memorable though.”

“I’d call it a date,” he says, giving you an easy smile. “Right? Always hoped I’d be more smooth with the ladies, but I guess that didn’t happen today.” He looks so different now, shoulders relaxed, another smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You were a complete gentleman, Eddie.” 

“Even when I was touching your a-”

You don’t give him a chance to finish that sentence as your cheeks burn hot and you giggle. “Yes, even then.” 

A few more minutes pass with a silence that’s not nearly as awkward as it was at the beginning of the day. And this time when he speaks you can practically hear the smile in his voice. 

“So we both agree this was a date?” He doesn’t give you time to stumble and stutter or apologize your way through a response before he’s talking again, this time it’s a little slower and the smile isn’t as prominent in his words. “That mean you, uh maybe wanna try this again another time?” 

Your heart swells and balloons and you can’t keep the smile off your face no matter how hard you try and you don’t want to appear too eager and scare him off, but if nothing about today has scared him off you don’t think this will either as you all but shout out a yes please. 

Eddie can’t quite believe his ears when you agree so quickly and he wants to pinch himself because there’s a part of him that still believes after the disaster of today you’d want a redo, but the smile on your face and your bright eyes indicate otherwise. His fingers inch a little closer to yours in front of the merry go round, but he doesn’t try to grab your hand, not yet at least, instead he lets his fingers rest next to yours as you both watch the happy couples and families enjoy the fair while he plots out what he hopes is a better second date. 

A/N: If you enjoyed reading about these two they'll be back in Hayride!

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Working on a Tommy Shelby arranged marriage fic

Lil sneak-peak below the cut

Tommy had had the gall to lean in and peck your cheek when he’d come down to breakfast that morning. 

It had taken everything in you not to shove him away.

Polly made no comment on how wane you looked the next morning, nor did Ada or Esme cast you knowing grins or teases. They all looked toward Tommy, and toward the little slip of a shadow that you’d met last night—a birch-pale, dark-haired woman named Lizzie. 

You didn’t think that the news had made it back to your family, the fact that your husband had just spent his first night as a newly-married man with a prostitute-turned-secretary while you slept alone in an unfamiliar room wearing the lacy nightie that you’d bought for your honeymoon.

Esme and Ada excused themselves as quickly as they could, but Polly lingered, and offered,

“He’s a prickly sort, and these things take time. Men have their needs and urges.”

“...Right,” You pronounced crisply as you stirred some sugar into your tea, “And I’m a novice in a nunnery.”

[theoddest1]

i strongly feel like the godawful tattoo thing is the result of people woobifying val and not taking his role as a serial r*pist seriously. yeah he's fictional but lets not forget that all this "its just fiction bs" leads to a fucking victim being shipped their r*pist, the r*pist being defended and simped after, and played down. great. any person with more than a braincell would immediately see what the issue is. this shit reminds me of amercian horror story season 1 where they glorified the school shooter to be sexy and quirky or how glorified self harm was. it stuck with me, since i was a pre-teen and depressed when i saw this and i thought it was edgy and cool and never saw an issue with it since that was how it was portrayed. this shit makes my skin crawl.

imagine being in public and a stranger asks about the tattoo- and obviously you would only tell them the show they're from and what the character's name is, and not that their only character trait is being a huge abuser and assaulter, but imagine being a person with no clue about hazbin, then looking up the character and then seeing what he really is. i think i'd be horrified. i'd stay 300 yards away from that person. you can like a deranged and truly evil/irredeemable character, but there is a limit- and val is the most one-dimensional character to ever exist, since being a r*pist and a giant manbaby are his ONLY character traits, there is literally nothing else to his character and person. even your average 80's slasher has more depth and complexity.

i cant fucking take this anymore. holy hell.

CW////NON-CON SHIPS

And I have even sadder news for you Anon.

Found this all on their acc. (Sorry if quality ends up being trash, tumblr kinda makes my pics look oof)

And on top of all of that, they have the gall to be pissy that folks find Val, a straight rapist, worse than a woman who was ALSO forced into an arranged marriage that they had no say in and that those who SIMP and WOOBIFY him are in the utter wrong. They even try to make it seem like Stella and Stolas still have sex when I believe Stella states that she's happy an egg fell outta her so that she can stop wanting to have sex with him. She's no saint, but to make the argument that it's hypocritical to like or find Stella interesting when the situations VASTLY differ(One is an implied prolific raoist, the other is a woman trapped in a life she never fucking wanted and raised in a possible terrible environment) is EXTREMELY tone deaf and shows a lack of critical thinking skills. This is it, guys! This do be the Hazbin Hotel Fandom.

[definitelynotstable]

Feverish [Ghost x fem!Reader]

AN: Hey sexies! I haven’t used Tumblr since I was like 13 (which was a while ago) and I haven’t written fanfic in a while either. I find it hard to like things without them consuming me and the current addiction is CoD. It started with CoD mobile - me and the flatties play each night and then I rediscovered Modern Warfare and realised MW2 existed. Instantly obsessed. Why are they all so fine???????? Anyway. I haven’t written creatively since like high-school so I’m rusty and there is lots I don’t know. Go easy on me babes x

Synopsis: "Holy shit, you're burning up!" – reader is sick, Ghost is worried. Word count: 1.7k Ghost x reader (callsign “Rags” don’t ask why) not proof-read i have adhd babes x

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

5am just wasn’t the ideal wake-up time. Something you should’ve thought about before joining the military. Something you definitely should’ve taken into account when accepting a position in such an esteemed taskforce. The 141 rarely took breaks. When you weren’t on active duty you were at base training. Price was a stern but fair Captain. His drills were consistent and hard, pushing you all to your limits but still allowing you to grow as a team.

But Price wasn’t in charge of training today. Nor had he been for the last week. Away on some need-to-know mission he had left his lieutenant in charge. Simon “Ghost” Riley. Less consistent, far more stern but just as fair as the Captain - Ghost’s drills were significantly more difficult.

You stretched carefully, rotating your neck from side to side and sighing as it clicked. You could hear voices down the hall and the distant rumble of the kettle. Soap and Gaz no doubt. Now fully dressed you pulled on your boots and shuffled down the hall.

“Morning boys.” You yawned, pulling out a chair and slumping to lean against your crossed arms on the table.

“Morning, Rags,” Gaz echoed back to you, Soap grunting in acknowledgment as he poured his coffee.

“Any clue what the LT has in store for us today?” You ask, watching as Soap fiddled with the french-press.

He huffed as he settled into the chair across from you, nursing a mug between his scarred hands. “Somethin’ horrid, nae doubt, he’s been in a bad mood since Price took his leave.”

“I’ll say,” Gaz scoffed tipping the dregs from Soap’s press into his mug and heaping in sugar, “can barely feel my arms after yesterdays drill.”

You groaned rubbing your eyes, “yeah, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“I don’t recall there being any trucks involved in the drill yesterday - but that can be arranged.”

The bored voice drawled from the doorway, Lieutenant Ghost himself stood, legs shoulder width apart, arms folded across his broad chest. The man took up the entire goddamned doorframe.

Resisting the urge to stand at attention you cracked a sheepish smile. The 141 weren’t one for formalities.

‘Morning LT,” Gaz took the words out of your mouth from where he leaned against the sink, “got more pain in store for us today?”

“If you though yesterday was painful, sergeant, you’ve got a big storm coming.” Ghost turned go head out. “Gym in 10.”

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

He wasn’t kidding. Today was worse. The lieutenant had designed a circuit so difficult even Gaz was complaining - something usually only Soap had the gall to do. God you were tired. You hadn’t struggled this hard to complete a drill since basic training as an unfit and unmotivated 18 year old. “Pick it up Sergeant!” Ghost barked from across the room as the battle ropes slipped form your sweaty hands. You grit your teeth and did as asked, only two minutes to go.

“Fuck!” You swore under your breath as the rope thunked against the floor, leaving your grasp again. You quickly squatted to pick it up, hoping the Lieutenant hadn’t noticed. You flinched as his stern voice echoed through the gym but it was Soap on the receiving end, the man smirking as Ghost yelled at him to keep form.

You turned your focus back to the ropes, planting your more firmly as you noticed your form starting to waver. God you felt like you were about the keel over.

“Pick up the pace Sergeant!” The voice came from your left, flinching to hear the Lieutenant so close. Feeling worse by the second you did as you were told, pushing every last inch of energy into the ropes in front of you.

He’ll be gone soon, you told yourself, He’ll move on to yell at Gaz and I can slow my pace.

But the hulking figure in your periphery remained and you found your resolve wavering. Without warning the world tilted dramatically and your cheek was bouncing off the sweat covered foam on the floor. The distant clanking of weights came to a stop and impeccably polished and shined boots filled your vision. Ghost.

“Rags!” Gaz thumped to his knees beside you, yanking you into a sitting position. His worried face swimming in your vision.

“Settle down, Gaz,” Soap spoke as he pulled him back and someone else came to kneel in front of you. A water bottle was pushed into your hands and a cool but rough hand landed gently on your forehead.

“Christ you’re burning up!” The lieutenant rarely swore outside of the field, you must be on fire.

“Yeah no shit,” Water dribbled down your chin as you took a swig of water, “that was a tough drill LT.”

Soap coughed out a laugh from where he stood behind Ghost, "Aye, I reckon he's sayin' ye've got a fever, lass.”

You scoffed, batting back the lieutenants hand, “I think I would know if I had a fever, I just need a rest.”

“Your dripping in sweat,” Ghost retorted cooly.

“We were just working out.“

“You fell over -“

-“It happens-“

‘Not to you.” The lieutenants voice was firm. “Not to us. We are special forces military - we don’t just ‘fall over’.”

There was no room for argument in his tone, you knew he was right. Leaning forward, Ghost looped his arms under yours and pulled you firmly to your feet. You wavered slightly, his grip on you the only thing keeping you standing.

“You need rest.”

Gaz popped into view, eager, “I can take her back too her room, LT!”

Ghost swung his gaze over the young sergeant who shrank back immediately, “if you thought this was the end of training for today, you’re wrong. You and Soap still have a minute left. I want you halfway through the next set once I’m back.”

Laughing Soap clapped Gaz on the back, “Come on lad. Let the LT look after Rags, we don’t give up so easily.”

You scoff, “Rude.”

“Get well soon, Lass,” Soap winked, pulling Gaz back to his station as Ghost led you out of the gym.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

“You really don’t need to lead me to back to my room, I know the way.”

“We aren’t going to your room,” Ghost grunted, his hand hovering behind your shoulder blades as you wavered.

You looked up, frowning as you locked eyes with him. “I don’t need to go to the infirmary, LT. I just need a nap.”

The man shrugged, gently pushing you forward. “We have free healthcare, may as well use it.”

“God you’re relentless,” you muttered, missing how his eyes crinkled through the mask.

“To a fault, sergeant.”

The nurse in the infirmary whistled as she read your temp.

“Good thing you brought her here, Lieutenant,” she turned to you with her hands on her hips, ‘you’re dehydrated, hun. I’m keeping you here overnight or until your fever breaks.”

“Really? I can never sleep in here, it’s too bright.” You felt like a child under the stern stares of the nurse and Ghost who stood beside her, arms crossed.

“We can dim the lights if you’d like, sergeant,” the nurse offered, bustling around while she prepped an IV, “but you’re staying here until I say.”

You sank lower in the bed, letting your chin fall against your chest.

“I usually sleep with an eye-mask.” You mumble, embarrassed.

“What was that, hun?”

Ghost steps closer with a single nod, “speak up sergeant.”

You cleared your throat, feeling silly. “I usually wear an eye-mask.”

“I’m sure we can figure something out,” the nurse smiled, pulling your arm to the side, “small pinch.”

You sucked in a breath as the needle slid home.

“Where is it?”

You looked up, surprised the lieutenant was still there. “Where’s what?”

“Your eye mask.” Ghost responded, arms still crossed.

“Oh,” you wince slightly as the nurse hooked up the fluids to the port on your arm, “uh don’t worry about it LT, one of the boys can grab it later I’m sure.”

“I’m here now. Where is it?”

You met his eyes, surprised. “My room, either on my bedside table or in the top drawer.”

Ghost leaves with a curt nod, the curtain swishing behind him. You sigh, leaning back into the pillow behind you, praying it’s lying on top and not in the drawer that holds a variety of items you definitely don’t want your Lieutenant seeing.

By the time he returns you’re half asleep in your fever-induced delirium. The lights are dimmed but your eyes still burn. He gently lays the mask on the bed next to your arm and makes to leave.

“Thanks LT.” You say with a rasp, cracking your eyes open further.

He looks up, blue eyes meeting yours. “Though you were asleep.”

You laugh softly, “Wasn’t kidding when I said I couldn’t sleep without it.”

“Mm.” He grunts in acknowledgement. “Lieutenant?”

“Yeah?” He stops, hand on the door handle.

“Thanks for today.”

He nods sharply, not sure how to respond. “Thank me when your back in fighting shape, sergeant."

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Masterlist

[cinnamontails-ff]

Magistrate Astarion Week - Day 3

Astarion's first attempt at a serious relationship, as narrated by his girlfriend's cat "Objection".

Day 3: Funny

Objection was angry. To be fair, Objection was angry a lot of the time. Several years of living on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, forced to bear witness to the deepest pits of the human psyche, had instilled a sort of general, overarching anger in him. The type that wasn’t directed at anyone or anything so much as at the world at large and his boundless disappointment at being forced to live in it. Now, however, Objection’s anger had shifted. Focused and sharpened, like the little rays of light Zoraya would occasionally send through the house with her hand mirror for him to hunt down. The sheer might of his anger concentrated on a single individual so utterly despicable, Objection had no choice but to devote the entirety of his disdain to him and him alone. The idiot. The intruder. The foppish, ugly little man who had had the gall to saunter into Objection’s home without an invitation, without the customary rodent offerings or so much as a formal bow! Never even realizing that this was in fact Objection’s house. A space he shared with Zoraya on account of an arrangement they’d made years ago: fish treats in exchange for a roof over her head. It had seemed a fair trade at the time, all things considered. Objection was beginning to revise this assessment. No amount of fish treats could compensate him for the agony of having to watch the idiot get down on all fours and hold out his stupid hand and coo, “Come here, kitty cat! Look what I’ve got for you!” Objection turned away majestically, making sure to knock the proffered treat off the idiot’s hand with a swish of his tail. He did not, as a rule, react to nicknames. His name was hand-picked just for him, and he was very fond of it. It was intimidating, frightful even — a name with a bang, so to speak. Really, the idiot ought to be grateful that Objection refrained from chastising him with a well-placed slap across his extremely slappable face. Instead, the man would sigh and hand the rejected treat to Zoraya, his ridiculously oversized ears practically hanging down with misery. “Give him time,” Zoraya would say encouragingly. “He’s shy.” And then she’d pet his idiotic face or press her mouth to his or wrap her whole entire body around him and this — this! — was what made Objection angriest of all. Not the idiot’s presence in his house, but what he did to Zoraya. Objection had chosen her for a reason when he’d decided to settle down after several years of reigning the Lower City with an iron fist. Zoraya was dependable and level-headed. She had excellent taste in treats and was generally quiet enough not to bother him. As soon as the idiot came prancing over the doorstep, that all flew out the window. Her pupils would go wide and the blood would rush to her face when she went to greet him, practically throwing herself into his scrawny arms. Sometimes she’d stay there for an unreasonably long time, making all sorts of odd noises Objection couldn’t decipher, no matter how close he came to listen in. But when she’d pull the idiot into the bedroom — rudely closing the door in Objection’s face — he could make out a sickeningly sweet note in her scent that reminded him of what a female cat in heat smelled like. Which really only added another layer of horror to it all. Because Objection had not signed up for more than one person in his house, let alone a whole litter of idiot-shaped kittens.

Excerpt from chapter 18 of "Magistrate's Advocate"

If you find yourself in desperate need of a spoiler-free Objection prequel, look no further than here.

[antimonyandthyme]

oscar/mark, a/b/o dynamics

“You’re not being rational about this,” Oscar says, and he sounds surprised, as if he had fully expected Mark to roll over and acquiesce.

In all the time Mark has known Oscar, he can count on one hand the instances in which they’ve butt heads. Most often they rub up against each other with mild annoyances, Hey, answer your phone quicker, this was important, easily solvable things. But this galls.

It isn’t about the offer. Not even that it’d cross every professional boundary in existence, and then throw the whole rulebook into the ocean too. But that Oscar thinks it’s the rational thing to do. Cut and dry, as cold and as clinical as you like.

Oscar’s looking at Mark as if he were a puzzle he can’t figure out. Mark swallows down the fully formed retort on his tongue, Hey, buddy, I don’t know if you’ve noticed in your twenty-something or so years living on earth, but heats aren’t exactly rational—

But that’d just sound petty. And Oscar would just blink at him in that way of his anyway, that way that meant, Why are you so upset?

Mark isn’t in the mood to explain. Definitely not in the mood to explain to someone more than half his age why he doesn’t think it would be a good idea to spend his impending heat together.

“No thank you, Oscar,” he says again.

“But.” Oscar frowns. “I’m right here.”

He isn’t posturing, that much Mark knows, as sure as he is that Oscar would rather roll his eyes than click an extra button to complain on the radio. There are no hidden layers when Oscar speaks, Mark likes that about him. And it isn’t arrogance either. He’s just being frustratingly, infuriatingly, irritatingly, rational.

So Mark has no reason being angry.

“All the same,” he says, as neutrally as he can manage, “I’d rather spend it alone.”

There’s a small, selfish lick of satisfaction at the whipcrack ripple of emotion it causes in Oscar’s expression, which then makes him feel like a giant asshole. But whatever.

Heats. Rational. Sure.

--

When did we get so old, huh, he said the last time Seb visited, and they had ended up mostly napping like two lazy cats in the sun. On a regular schedule the suppressants work fine, throw in jet-lag into the mix and they see fit to wreak havoc on his body. Migraines and loss of appetite, and the doctor had advised to just lay off during the race calendar.

Which, alright, can be done, except there’re three out of four of the yearly heats that would possibly land on a race weekend.

He detests arranging for services during a race, and spending heats alone is no longer the end of the world it once was. Uncomfortable, certainly, but much less now than when he was younger. The good thing about growing old is that you learn some tricks. You listen to your body and its needs, except when it’s fucking whinging for an alpha who’s absolutely out-of-bounds.

Saturday morning has his temperature surging, and he knows making Qualifying is out of the question. He texts Oscar a perfunctory, Good luck, make us proud, and goes to hunker down in the hotel room.

He’s prepared. The mini-fridge’s stocked, and he’s brought an assortment of toys to deal with the gnawing emptiness. It’s routine at this point. Moan and snarl and curse his existence, grow lucid enough to switch the telly on while stroking his cock and fucking himself with a toy, then back to curling into the tiniest, tightest ball in a mass of blankets, all the while sweating and blurting out half his body weight in fluids. Heave himself up to eat a sandwich. Check on Oscar’s times. Dry-heave a little while texting him congratulations. Go back to bed. Rinse, repeat.

The one bone, the one benefit of having regular heats, is that they don’t last long. By evening, Mark’s body has settled into some not-yet-post-heat-but-getting-there state. His dick is still hard, but at least he doesn’t feel the need to give himself rug-burn by tugging at it every five minutes.

Convenient, because the door-bell rings.

“Fucking hell,” Mark says, unimpressed. “What are you doing here?”

He thought he’d made himself exceptionally clear. But Oscar’s here, looking about as far from usual Oscar as Mark’s possibly seen him. Anxious, disheveled, toe-tapping nervous nonsense. Eyes-shifty, red-cheeked. Impossibly endearing.

“I have had a lot of time to think about this,” Oscar says, which in Oscar-speech means he stared into the abyss for a couple of hours thinking about nothing else. “It occurs to me that I’ve been horribly remiss.”

“You talk like an old man,” Mark says.

“I’m trying to apologize,” Oscar says, agitated. “I didn’t mean to. Offer so flippantly. As if your heat has no significance.”

There is no significance, is Mark’s knee-jerk response, but even he can see it for the lie it is.

“I… was hurtful without meaning to be. I’m sorry, Mark.”

Mark nods stiffly. He might be out of deep waters, but the ache of loneliness takes some time to dispel. Best to close the door in Oscar’s face soon before his body gets any stupid ideas. “Apology accepted,” he says.

Oscar opens his mouth. “That’s not all.”

Of course it isn’t. Oscar smells like pine and those godawful expensive vanilla candles and this is just not a very good time. “Go on,” Mark says, through gritted teeth.

“I wasn’t being truthful earlier.”

Mark blinks. “About?”

“Rationality,” Oscar says, and suddenly it’s as if he hates the word. “That was never why I offered. I thought. I thought it’d be the only reason you’d accept. If I could make you see it as something easy. You’re here, I’m here, you know? Might as well.”

“Oscar,” Mark says faintly.

“Mark,” Oscar retorts. “You get what I’m saying, right? I offered because I want to. You know. Be the alpha in your heat. Christ. Is that how people go about saying it? I don’t fucking know, mate. I just want to help you, like you’ve helped me.”

Oscar sounds as if he’s practiced this in front of the mirror. Practiced it and then gone and fucked it all up anyway, because his ears are bright red and he’s looking as if he wants the tiled hotel floor to swallow him up. He’s staring at the ground, or, quite possibly, at the line of Mark’s erection through his sweatpants.

“Mark. Could you say something please?”

“I don’t think—”

“That it’s a good idea, yeah, I got that earlier. Could I hear something honest, please?”

Oscar’s never once asked Mark for anything. Sure, manager duties aside, Mark busting an arm and a leg to pave the way for a certain career aside, Oscar’s never once asked Mark for more. And now he’s asking, heart on his sleeve, and Mark’s too worn down to say anything but—

“It’d be nice.”

Oscar whips his head up. All hopeful, like a pup promised a treat. “I—what—really?”

“Nice, and completely irresponsible of me.”

“Okay,” Oscar’s saying, and already he’s leaning in toward Mark, shuffling eagerly forward such that he’s breached the doorway. “Okay, but. It’d still be nice, right?”

"Yeah," Mark sighs. “Yes.”

Oscar takes one more step forward. Something clicks in the right direction when he places one hand on Mark’s jaw, and the other on his hip. A lock being turned in place, a scale being tipped. Something like that.

Quick on the uptake, never slow to see his moment of win, greedy, hungry, opportunistic. All traits of a good Formula 1 driver. That’s his boy.

Mark closes his eyes. Regret can come tomorrow, after the race. He pulls the door shut behind them.