#at least i'm hot.

[hannie-dul-set]

having the worst fucking week of my LIFE i can't do this anymore.

[mobius-m-mobius]

#happy anniversary to remembering this actually happened 😘✌️

Loki S2 Anniversary x Episode 5 - “Science/Fiction”

[clarabosswald]

had to get out of bed to vent about this because jesus fucking christ.

tl;dr there is enough real shit to criticize and condemn about israel, stop making stuff up.

anyway this is the full thing that just happened to me on reddit:

on which i commented

(the pancakes thing is a reference to a post i saw on tumblr, btw. it had 10k+ notes.)

which then prompted this lovely interaction with the sub's mods:

so here's the thing.

no, "not legally recognized" and "illegal" are not the same thing. just like "not legal" and "not legally recognized" are not the same thing!

interfaith marriage is not illegal in israel! neither is queer marriage! neither is secular marriage!

the thing about jewish marriage here is that, within israel, in order to get full spousal rights from the government, you need to go through the state rabbinate. the state rabbinate grants marriage only according to their very strict interpretation of the jewish religion. that means that anyone who doesn't want to get married like that, will have to pick other routes.

for instance. cyprus is a popular marriage destination for israelis! any israelis! including secular jews! i know that because my own parents, who are 100% jews but also 100% secular, flew to cyprus to get married there, and then got legally recognized as fully married back in israel!

queer couples who get married abroad are legally recognized as married within the country!

other religions - muslim, christian, druze, etc. - have their own religious marriage institutions that are legally recognized!

while traditional marriage in israel is tied to religious institutions, there are alternative routes to being legally recognized as a couple, which grant at least some, if not all the rights granted to religiously married couples!

all of this knowledge comes not from taking wikipedia articles as gospel, but from actually living in this stupid cesspool of a place!

pretending to know more about local queer issues than local queers is queerphobic as fuck!

pretending to know more about jewish issues than a jew is antisemitic as fuck!

to make things crystal clear: israel is a fucked up place there are plenty of actual, real, crimes this state does that are actually grounded in real evidence you don't need to make shit up to make this country look bad speaking over, invalidating, and excluding locals from talking about their own lived experience doesn't make you righteous! it makes you a pompous, elon musk-wannabe dickwad!

your local plot of grass is touch starved as fuck

[backpackingspace]

Consider young odysseus and Penelope courting by going on adventures together (committing crimes)

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

wild n fucked up that in order to try to buy a floofy poet shirt/white ruffly blouse off the rack at any fashion shop in the mall they want to charge me over 120 bucks CAD for a flimsy shirtlike thing that I'd need to alter to fit, that's made out of 100% polyester, that has no alternatives, as every shop uses the same handful of suppliers so it's all polyester no matter what

but

at hot topic, for 40 bucks, I can get an off-white floofy poet shirt/white ruffly blouse that's in my size, fits me well, has a nicely done gather at the wrists to let me adjust where the sleeves, sturdily applied lace and is 100% rayon????

Like I know I'm not gonna be easily able to find linen these days but just the contrast between the two is ???????????

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

A lesson in the lustful female Gayze™: LA RELIGIEUSE / THE NUN (1966), dir. Jacques Rivette

[fuckyeahorangecassidy]

Oh look, just the GREATEST (non-professional) PICTURE OF OC EVER TAKEN

[mktskii]

—Coffee Confession

—Synopsis: Bakugou Katsuki, a student at the prestigious U.A. High, works part-time at a café, where he begrudgingly deals with annoying customers for some extra cash—until you show up. A new transfer from the States, you're still learning Japanese, and Bakugou, known for his tough attitude, surprisingly goes out of his way to make your favorite drink just right.

—Pairing: Barista!Bakugou Katsuki x AFAB!blk + interational!reader

—Genre: Slow-burn thats lowkey a bit fast-ish(?), Slice of Life, Quirkless AU

—Tags: Quirkless AU, café setting, crush to lovers, fluff, cutness, secret soft side, Bakugou being a cutie, cute confession, cultural differences, language barrier, reader from the states, UA high school.

Bakugou couldn’t believe it. Of all the part-time jobs he could've taken, he ended up working at a cafe. It wasn’t like he needed the money—he was already attending the most prestigious school in Japan, U.A. Academy, where future business leaders, innovators, and geniuses like him were trained. But a job was a job, and for some reason, the idea of working in a cafe didn’t seem all that bad. Plus, he liked money. Except for when they showed up.

"Hey, Bakugou!" A group of annoying guys he hated from U.A. strolled into the cafe. They were the type he despised—the overly popular, arrogant jocks that people gravitated to. Bakugou had beef with them for as long as he could remember. The day they beat him by a measly three points in that basketball game still burned in his brain. He took orders with his usual scowl, holding back the urge to shove them out the door. When they asked for caramel lattes, his mouth twitched in delight. He spoke without really thinking about it.

“We don’t have caramel today. Get something else, unless you want a regular latte,” he said, his tone dripping with venom.

The idiots groaned and, after a few minutes of begging him to check if he was absolutely sure it wasn't in stock, walked off. Bakugou was pleased.

But that’s when you stepped up to the counter. You, with your deep caramel skin and soft glow, looking like you were straight out of a painting. The way your tight curls framed your face, highlighting your striking almond-shaped eyes, made Bakugou freeze. He’d seen you around U.A. before—always asking for directions in broken Japanese, struggling to find your way. You weren’t like those other morons; you had a calm, almost serene aura that intrigued him. Just barely, though. But you always looked so lost, and now, here you were, clearly overwhelmed by the menu and situation.

You panicked a little, your fingers drumming against the counter as you tried to figure out what to order. "Um… sorry… give me a second," you stammered, your accent thick but your effort admirable. You had wanted a caramel latte, too.

Bakugou, normally impatient with customers, felt a strange pull to not be his usual rude self. He almost snapped, but he found himself biting his tongue. You were just… different.

“Take your time,” he said, almost too casually.

You looked up in surprise, probably expecting him to yell at you like he did to everyone else. Even you knew about his reputation by now. His face still held that signature scowl, and yet, behind his fiery eyes, there was something softer there. Something less abrasive. He watched you, trying not to let his face betray anything, but you, like most people, probably mistook his intense gaze for irritation. And sure, Bakugou looked pissed a lot, but this time, it wasn’t that. He was just... looking at you.

When you finally settled on a regular latte, you gave him your name. His friends, Sero, Kaminari, and Kirishima, finally showed up, ready to work, but Bakugou had already zoomed to make your drink himself. He even threw in some caramel for you, even though he'd just told the others they were out of stock. He could assume you wanted it, since the few times you'd come, he always heard you order it. Today was just his day. He's making it for you. You weren't one of those idiots he hated; you didn’t deserve the same treatment. Not that he liked you or anything. Definitely not. He just didn’t hate you.

“Here,” he said, handing you the latte, brushing off your confused look when you realized there was caramel in it.

"Didn't you say there wasn’t any caramel?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bakugou shrugged, handing it to you with a gruff, “Found some in the back.”

You smiled and nodded, seemingly grateful for the small gesture, and left the cafe. But then, you glanced at the name he’d written on your cup. You squinted, trying to decipher the kanji.

“‘Girl who takes too long to order’…?”

You couldn’t help but giggle. Despite his intimidating exterior, Bakugou had a funny, albeit slightly insulting, sense of humor. It didn’t stop there, though. Every time you came back, he wrote something different.

“Caramel latte for the caramel-looking girl.”

“Order for the nerdy brat.”

“Drink for the idiot who speaks trash Japanese.”

But each time, you only smiled and rolled your eyes, giving him a look that said, Really? He’d just shrug, smug as ever.

His friends noticed, of course. Kaminari figured it out first. "Dude, you totally like her," he teased one day when you weren’t around. Bakugou immediately punched him in the shoulder. Hard.

Every time you would come in, Bakugou glared at them, daring them to say something to you. Sero, being the linguist of the group, once tried to speak to you in English, and you looked so relieved and happy to finally understand someone that Bakugou nearly exploded from jealousy.

After that, he downloaded Duolingo, ready to tear that annoying green bird apart if it meant he could speak to you fluently. Learning English was a pain, but the thought of seeing that same smile you gave Sero was worth it. He needed to be the one to make you smile like that.

Not that he liked you or anything. No way. You were just… well, fine.

He liked you.

But Bakugou being Bakugou, he was really nervous to confess and act all lovey or whatever. That wasn’t his style. So, he kept up the insults, kept up the weird names on your cups, hoping you’d catch on eventually that they were slowly not so insulting anymore.

And then one day, after your usual order, you rushed out the door, clearly late for something. You didn’t have time to look at the cup until you were halfway down the street. You pulled it up to your face and read the label.

“‘Pretty girl I want to date.’”

You stopped dead in your tracks, heart pounding. Did you read that right? You glanced back at the cafe, feeling a rush of adrenaline. Before you knew it, you were running back, nearly knocking someone over in your hurry. You burst through the doors, slightly out of breath, and caught Bakugou’s eyes from across the counter.

He looked… devastated that he didn’t get to see your initial reaction. But when you stood there, staring at him with wide eyes, the hint of a blush on his cheeks gave him away.

It wasn’t the most conventional confession. But for Bakugou? It was perfect.

“Well? What’s your answer, dumbass?” he muttered, trying to hide how nervous he actually was.

You just smiled.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated <3

[shirmart]

My piece for OP AU zine

Also

Happy birthday, Zoro

[yasmindifference]

gonna reply to old ao3 comments tonight, so apologies for the incoming spam to anyone who's commented on more than one of my works in one of the last *checks notes* 467 days since I last replied to comments 😳

[queerofthedagger]

i love fingon so much just. he's so good and so reckless and he loves so fiercely it makes him do the most stupid shit, and in turn no one ever quite puts him first. I'm going to eat glass

[elftism]

I've gotten spoiled quite a bit on canto 7 (TAG YOUR SPOILERS PLEASE) but i feel very conflicted about it because have you seen her

[miffmuff]

I couldn't resist... I needed to draw out the lyrics.......

[cuubism]

literally just smut, dreamling, prince/knight dynamic, uh. lowkey virginity kink. lowkey degradation kink. yeah.

--

The war camp is dark, the tent only barely lit by a few scant candles, but Hob is wide awake.

It had been a fantastically successful battle, that day. Much needed after a string of losses. They’d absolutely destroyed the enemy, Hob’s only just managed to clean most of the blood off himself—and he’s still riding that high hours later, blood pumping, restless energy racing as he occupies himself cleaning his armor and his sword.

Technically, he could get someone else to do these menial tasks. He’s a knight, he’s of high enough rank to request it. But Hob’s always believed a man should tend to his own weapons, should know every piece of them. It’s the same reason he takes care of his own horse, and his own tack.

Besides, the repetitive motion of the cleaning is taking the edge off.

There’s another thing that can cut the edge of the battle high.

Sex.

How fortunate, then, that Hob is on good terms with so many of the working ladies of the camp.

Not that it’s really so hard to be on good terms. The bar is so low that simply not behaving like a total dick seems to do the trick—but the fact remains that when Hob calls for one of the messenger boys who hang around outside to send for whoever’s working that night, he knows someone will come by. He pays them well, he gets along with most everyone, and it’s really not that hard to get one’s prick wet under those circumstances.

He’s just finished oiling the final leather straps on his armor, is hanging it up to await the next fight, when he hears the entrance flap of the tent, to his back, swish open and shut again. The rush of cool night air into the warm, close space.

“Be right with you, luv,” he calls, tying off the last strap, and a deep, sonorous voice responds—

“Please, take your time, Ser Gadling.”

Hob whirls around, nearly falls over like a buffoon he goes so fast. Standing there is not one of the working girls he’s come to know. It is, in fact, Prince fucking Morpheus, dark hair tousled by the wind, wrapped in a long velvet cloak that sparkles like stardust where the light catches it.

“My prince,” Hob stammers, trying to decide whether he’s meant to bow and managing only a dip of the head. It’s Prince Morpheus’s fault, this awkwardness, Hob would have managed with perfect politeness the sudden arrival of one of his siblings, or even the King himself. It’s only Morpheus that fells him so. “I—”

“—called for a whore?” Morpheus finishes, quirking a brow. Hob can only describe the look in his eyes as mischievous.

Anything Hob might have possibly managed to say is derailed by the rush of interest to his dick. That look, that phrase in Morpheus’s pretty, proper mouth— and what is he implying—?

“That’s… not the word I’d use,” Hob finally manages, throat tight. “Did. Did you need something, my prince?”

“As I’ve said,” repeats Morpheus, taking a fluid step closer to him. And he’s— he’s fucking barefoot in the grass. Lord have mercy. “You called for a whore.”

Hob should step back. Instead he’s rooted to the spot. Paralyzed by a swirling mix of fear and arousal. “That’s not— you’re not—”

Morpheus keeps advancing on him, liquid and predatory. The deep vee of his robe suggests he’s wearing nothing underneath. He’s got some kind of glitter under his eyes. And he’s— he’s so beautiful. Hob has always thought so, especially on that one blessed night when—

“Do you think me not a whore?” says Morpheus. He says it with allure, almost pride, not shame. “Do you think, my knight, that I have never slunk into some lord’s bed to steal secrets? That I have never used my body to seal an alliance, when my words were not sufficient?”

Hob should be horrified at the thought of his prince debased so. Instead, the image of Morpheus on his knees flashes through his mind, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from whining. “That’s not— the same,” he manages.

“Is it not?” Hob’s ankles hit his bedroll and he trips back, falling on his ass and bracing himself on his elbows, and Morpheus follows him, crawling up Hob’s body in a long, sinuous movement, the velvet of his robe soft wherever it touches his skin. “People can make sex their trade for coin, but it is different when I offer myself up in exchange for goods or laws or partnerships?”

If that’s all the case, Hob should find out what Morpheus wants with him now. Instead he asks, breathless, taken in by Morpheus’s eyes, “What did you trade for, then, my prince?” Maybe Hob doesn’t care what Morpheus wants with him. Maybe he only cares that Morpheus wants him. “When you let a foreign king bed you, did you use your mouth?” He touches Morpheus’s lips with his fingertips, and Morpheus smiles, sharp and pleased. “Or did you let him fuck you?”

The thought is as jealousy-inducing as it is arousing. Hob has no right to be jealous about his prince. But.

“What I needed to,” says Morpheus. “I have learned how to bait my lures. Many kings, I have learned, like to ruin pretty young men. Do you know—” he taps a fingertip along Hob’s lips “—how many times I have ‘sold’ my virginity? Played the hapless youth desperate for an older man to teach him, to use him?”

Fuck. Fucking hell.

“And did you learn?” Hob asks, hyperfocused on every point where their bodies are touching.

Morpheus tilts his head at him, suddenly all innocence. “Learn what?”

And, well. He does know how to bait his lures, it turns out. Even knowing he’s sinking his mouth onto a hook, Hob growls and flips them, pushing Morpheus down into the sheets. Morpheus lets out a startled breath that Hob’s pretty sure is affected but still succeeds in sending a thrill through him, and a powerful sense—careful, delicate, don’t hurt him. Even though the small part of Hob’s brain that’s still checked in to reason knows well that Morpheus is the one truly in control of whatever’s going on here.

“Should I teach you, then?” he asks, dragging a hand through Morpheus’s hair— so soft. “Show you how good I can make you feel?”

“Please,” Morpheus breathes, wrapping a delicate hand around the back of his neck. Hob really hopes he isn’t going to get drawn and quartered for this. Might be worth it, though. He doesn’t want to die, but if there were a way to go… “Hob, please.”

Fuck, his name in that wanting mouth.

“Got my mouth on you last time,” he muses, the sense memory of Morpheus’s prick on his tongue rushing through him, the hard press of the palace flagstones on his knees, “think I can show you something new, now.”

“I defer to your experience,” Morpheus breathes, as Hob pulls open his heavy velvet robe. As he’d thought, Morpheus isn’t wearing anything under it, and the thought of him walking through the camp like that to get here makes Hob want to bite something. Morpheus makes him so base and irrational.

Hob hadn’t gotten nearly this far last time. Had simply pulled open the ties on Morpheus’s breeches, let his prince tug on his hair as Hob took him in his mouth. Now, he has Morpheus fully unveiled to him, like a gift, like an offering, and, just like an offering, Morpheus stretches, arches his back, long limbs in relief and his cock laying hard against the crease of his thigh. He’s so pristine, always tucked away in his palace, where Hob has been out in the trenches—literally—getting sun-tanned and rough and dirty.

Although. Not so pristine as Hob might have thought. Apparently.

“You’re beautiful,” Hob tells him. “Your body is beautiful. I can’t wait to show you what I can do with it.”

Morpheus shudders, keeps playing along with their little facade of inexperience. “Will you ruin me for other men, Robert Gadling? Defile me, destroy my reputation so no respectable lord or lady will ever dare take me as their spouse?”

“You came crawling to my bed, pretty thing,” Hob says. Nips at Morpheus’s belly, which makes him cry out, such a pretty, keening sound, and then soothes where he’d bitten with lips and tongue. “You’ve been wanting it, I think. Someone to take you down, someone to fuck you.”

“Perhaps I simply wanted to reward my favorite knight,” Morpheus says, trailing off into a groan as Hob leaves another mark low on his pelvis.

“Should have told me you were the prize for valor,” Hob says. “I’d have killed twice as many men. Come to your bedroom still covered in the blood I spilled in your name.”

Morpheus actually moans at the image. “I’d have had you that way. My knight.”

“You can have me now.” It’s tempting, to do as he did last time, and take Morpheus into his mouth. But Hob wants to do something different to him. And he has the sense that Morpheus wants something different done. “Go on. On your belly.”

Morpheus’s breath leaves him in a shuddering rush, but he does as Hob says. Hob runs his hands down over his smooth back, his ass, his wiry thighs, kneeling between them and pushing them further apart. Morpheus whines, moving his hips in little circles to get the barest amount of friction on the sheets.

“You need it so badly.” Hob parts Morpheus’s cheeks with his thumbs, rubs over his hole, and Morpheus keens. “Don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, Hob, show me—”

Hob swipes the oil from the bag beside the bed—because yes, he is prepared for these sorts of things, if not specifically for his prince showing up—and dips his fingers in. Rubs them together to warm it, then slides one finger into Morpheus, without pause, straight to the first knuckle.

Morpheus lets out a choked gasp, fingers clenching in the sheets. The sound makes Hob’s cock twitch where it’s already straining in his breeches. “Hob—” he moans, strangled, “Hob, I—”

He starts to lift himself up, and Hob pushes him down with a hand on the back of his neck. Morpheus struggles for a moment and then goes boneless under him. Hob releases him and strokes his hair. “Good boy. You want it, don’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Morpheus says shakily, pushing back on Hob’s hand when he starts working that finger inside him. “Please. Please.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Hob promises. Having Morpheus, his prince, his beautiful prince, splayed out under him like this is heady. If he weren’t so focused on Morpheus’s reactions, he might have lost his grip on his own arousal already. “But you’re mine.”

He slides another finger in, and Morpheus moans raggedly. Hob doesn’t know if he’s truly getting overwhelmed or if he’s still trying to play the clueless virgin, but either way it’s burning through Hob’s veins. He gets Morpheus writhing on his fingers, achingly hard in his own pants, taking each of Morpheus’s pleasured, crying moans as its own prize.

Morpheus is shaking, panting, as Hob pulls his hips up, undoes the laces on his own breeches to pull out his cock, lines himself up. Morpheus presses his face into the bed, fingers tight in the sheets. Hob touches his lips to the base of his spine, tastes the sweat there. “My prince?”

Morpheus swallows hard and it still doesn’t seem to clear his throat. “I am ready.”

So Hob braces his hips and pushes in, one long slow slide. He groans at the same time as Morpheus moans, so ragged it’s almost pained. “Fuck you’re tight.”

“Well,” says Morpheus, “you are the first to have me so.”

Even aware that Morpheus is only playing at it, the words make Hob feel like he’s clinging to sanity by a thread. “You’ve been waiting so long, haven’t you?” he manages, as he starts to move, still holding Morpheus by the hips. Morpheus sighs at the slide, thighs trembling. It’s enough to make Hob obsessed. Morpheus is so tight and hot, Hob really doesn’t know how long he’s going to last, but he’s determined to give Morpheus just a bit of that ruination first. “Waiting for the right cock to fill you?”

Morpheus pushes back on him with a whine. “Yes.”

“Kept yourself as a prize for me?”

“Yes. Hob.”

Hob reaches around to take him in hand, and Morpheus cries out, bucking into his touch, pinned in place. Hob moves faster, each thrust pushing Morpheus into his grip, his breeches scraping roughly over Morpheus’s bare thighs, and it feels so base to have him like this, still clothed, taking him like a casual whore when he’s a prince. It feels wrong. But so good.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, voice gratifyingly steady. “For your first time?”

Morpheus lets out a wordless groan. Then, “Good. So much. I—” he trails off again, losing his breath. And this, too, is gratifying, reducing Morpheus, usually so eloquent, to broken sentences and simple words.

“Good, love.” Hob soothes a hand over his hip. “That’s good.”

But before Morpheus can settle, Hob increases his pace, pounding into him so hard and fast that Morpheus loses what remains of his balance and is held in place only by Hob’s hand on his hip, his arm wrapped around his belly. Each thrust pulls a sharp gasp from him, his face pushed into the sheets— and Hob’s nearly insensate with how good it is, but still he manages to pull Morpheus off in time with each thrust.

“Hob—” Morpheus chokes, “Hob, I’m—”

“You can come, love. I want to see you.”

Morpheus comes with a bitten-off cry, spilling over Hob’s hand. He’s so beautiful like that, Hob’s formal, perfect prince—crumpled in pleasure, eyes screwed shut, hair damp with sweat. It’s a collision of every illicit thought Hob’s swallowed down when he’s looked at him. In the palace, on campaign, at times when he was meant to be guarding Morpheus and when he wasn’t. He can’t last long thinking about that, seeing that, so he bends low over Morpheus’s back and kisses the back of his neck. One small, tender touch in this game of roughness and transaction, one touch before Morpheus inevitably swans back out of his tent, back to his writing and his diplomacy and his other diplomacy, and— fuck—

Hob holds Morpheus to him as he comes, wishing he could say, don’t go back to anyone else. You’re mine now, come to me. But those aren’t his words to say.

Morpheus slumps down to the bed, boneless and satisfied. Hob follows him, breathing hard against the back of his neck, finally releasing him from under his weight. Morpheus only winces a little when he pulls out, and Hob yanks off his own shirt and uses it to wipe off Morpheus’s stomach, between his thighs. Morpheus sighs, tipping his head back, a tiny smile on his face, then turns to face Hob, leaning on his arm.

Hob’s swiftly learning how weak he is for that smile on the face of the usually unreadable prince. He trails an exploratory finger along Morpheus’s jaw, up his temple, into his hair. Morpheus closes his eyes at the touch, slow and sleepy.

“Was that better than your many transactional trysts?” Hob asks. “Or do I have work to do?”

“I would not know,” says Morpheus, a self-satisfied little smile now curling on his lips. “Considering those did not occur.”

Hob blinks hard, mind going blank. “What.”

“I spun you a story, Robert,” Morpheus says. His voice is sex-rough, his hair a mess, his gaze drags over Hob’s body with a proprietary touch. “And it is a fun story, is it not? Plying secrets from between the sheets, returning home victorious when one was thought to be had. And,” he drags a fingertip down the center of Hob’s chest, “coming back to the bed of a lover. One whom one wants to be with. To be made his again.”

Hob is still stuck on this. “Wait, are you telling me you made all that up?”

Morpheus smirks. “Do you truly think that my words would ever be insufficient to obtain what this kingdom needs? Do you think I need to use my mouth other ways to get treaties signed?”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“It was a compelling story, though,” Morpheus muses as Hob continues gaping at him. “You seemed compelled.”

“Morpheus, why?”

“I wanted to see how my favorite knight would respond to knowing other men had had me,” he says, and keeps dragging his fingers through Hob’s chest hair in self-soothing patterns. Then his expression shifts from clever to almost shy. “And. I thought that if you knew the truth, you might defer too much to me. Treat me only like your prince.”

Hob’s stomach swoops. “And… what’s the truth, then?”

“That evening at the state dinner, when someone meant me harm and you saved me…” his voice holds a note of wonder now. “That. Was the first time that I had ever.”

“What?” He can’t lie to himself, the thought of being Morpheus’s first, for real, does spark something in him. But also. Morpheus is a prince. And Hob had been…

“I had never before had cause,” Morpheus explains. “I was uninterested in marriage. And I never found anyone worth threatening my reputation over. Until…” His lips purse, stressed now. “And I wanted you so. And. You wanted me.”

Hob is speechless, running through every second of that night in his mind. Sweeping Morpheus into his arms and out of the way of a blade. Morpheus’s wide eyes staring at the slice in Hob’s arm, the blood welling there. Blinking and finding himself crowded into a side hall, Morpheus panting into his mouth, the hunger of his pretty lips, heat and adrenaline running through Hob’s body, pushing Morpheus against the wall and sinking to his knees in front of his charge, his dear, his prince to worship. The tears that had pricked at Morpheus’s eyes as Hob had taken him all the way down.

Christ.

“Does that bother you?” Morpheus asks, uncertain now.

“I’d have shown you a better time then if I’d known,” Hob says, because doesn’t he deserve to be properly taken care of? “In an actual bed.”

Morpheus lets out a little huff of a laugh, expression easing. “I enjoyed it.”

“And then…” he lets his hand come to rest low on Morpheus’s waist. “You came back for more.” He kisses Morpheus and swallows his pleased sigh. “Hungry little thing.”

Morpheus’s breath shudders, and he clings to Hob’s hair, his shoulders. Hob’s about to roll on top of him again and kiss him properly, maybe more once they’ve recovered themselves, but pauses as a realization sinks in. “Wait. Does that mean—”

“Yes, Hob. You were the first man to fuck me.” He sighs. “Use that information against me if you wish. It is out of my hands, now.”

Hob is reeling with shock, and even more so with arousal, heat flashing through his body at the mere thought that all Morpheus had pretended at, newness and learning and raw, unpracticed want, had been, at least somewhat, real. And he had let Hob have that. Catch it. Had trusted him.

“Never,” Hob swears, kissing his cheek. “I would never. You’ll be my secret. Besides. I don’t think anyone would ever believe me even if I said. Me, with you? A prince? And a gorgeous one at that?”

Morpheus runs his hands over Hob’s shoulders. “You are handsome. And very gallant. I do not see what you mean.”

“Well, that’s flattering. And I won’t tell you to take it back.”

Morpheus runs his tongue over his lower lip, eyes dark where they trace over Hob’s jaw, shoulders, chest. “I have. Wanted you from afar. For a very long time.”

Obligingly, Hob kisses him, and sweeps his hands over Morpheus’s lower back, drawing him close. “You’re a prince,” he says, breathless again with want for this wonderful being. “You can have whatever you want.”

“So,” Morpheus nuzzles at his jaw, “I may steal my way into your bed? You would not mind that, Ser Gadling?”

“Sneak in, or stay, I won’t mind. I’ll give you all my secrets.”

Morpheus hums. “And your loyalty?”

Hob thinks he means it playfully, a continuation of his ruse from before—but it comes out much more serious. His gaze finds Hob’s with a deeper wanting than when he’d swanned into Hob’s tent, all draped fabric and fluid lines of desire.

“You have it already,” Hob murmurs, and Morpheus’s pleased sigh as Hob kisses him is a balm to his soul. “My prince.”

[cnl0400]

Simeon the... Human?

Or should we say...

So... This Is something that has been happening since S3... I have a lot of questions, idk how to feel about this......?? This Is too much for one lesson!!

I still don't understand how Solomon was apparently the only one to pick on this...? Or why Simeon couldn't use his new "aura" to defend himself in S4OG. Maybe he Will be a low-ranking demon If he really felt and that's why he needs Solomon's protective spell, or maybe it's the devs retconning the whole human storyline, but I want to have faith.... At least for now, Let me have this... I want to BELIEVE that the devs have something good for him (<- voice of guy who Is coping so hard rn)

[victorie552]

Kind of a weird AU but hear me out:

Finwe marries Indis, right? Most controversial thing Finwe ever done and that includes leading elves from their ancestral home to a new continent to live with gods. Silmarillion says that it happened because he fell in love and I believe it BUT what Silmarillion doesn't tell you is WHEN Finwe marries Indis. I saw posts that say the canon is inconclusive and Tolkien probably changed his mind a lot, and half of what of what Tolkien wrote is thrown from the window by fandom, so.

Anyway, one of the versions said Feanor was at least a teenager when Finwe/Indis happens (I think). What Silmarillion states is that Feanor married VERY young by elven standards, and that Nerdanel was below his station (classism? in elven society? apparently!).

Last thing before I get to the main point: Fingolfin marries Anaire, a Noldo lady, who I saw often enough written as a noble or a court lady, perfectly fine that, no idea if that's canon. And Finarfin very much marries Teleri princess.

...I don't know guys, it feels very convienient. For princes to fall in love with exactly the kind of women who would be approved by royal court and strenghten political ties with other elven factions. If it was anything else than silm, I would call political marriages.

Time for crack: based on what I wrote above I propose an AU where it was FEANOR who was supposed to marry Indis. For politics! Vanyar are the most important faction in Aman! Let's marry into that!

But the MOMENT Feanor became an adult and they could process with courting without making it creppier than it already is, Feanor runs off to elope with his coworker and there's nothing they can do. Well, that's what Finwe tells Ingwe when Ingwe rages about it to him.

Finwe loves Feanor, he wants him to marry for love, and that's exactly what happens. But, uh, all Vanyar are pissed that there's no political marriage when they were promised one (they mad cause they look stupid now), and, well. Finwe decides to bite the bullet. For his son.

It's not true of course. But imagine family dinners after that.