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clockwayswrites · 10 months

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Both Ways at Once Part 1

wc 868, Masterpost

“You’ve read the dossier?”

The clipped words were in time with their quick steps down the pristine white hall.

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

Danny resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Unlike you, Hellblazer, I read my contracts before I sign them.”

“You wound me, Pomp,” John said, twirling an unlit cigarette between his fingers. “I’m just trying to protect you from the Big Bad Bat. He’s had a bit of a mare over this case. Hell, as a consultant, you shouldn’t even be seeing this with the access level things are at, but…”

“But you’re stuck and need my pretty baby blues on things to help you out,” Danny said, batting his lashes obnoxiously at John.

“Fuck off,” John said without any heat and shoved Danny away. “But the Bat is anxious about it. All the Bats are. If you can help us solve it sooner, then the better, because when the Bats are on edge, everyone is on edge. And it’s a fucking nightmare around here already with all the bloody do-gooders let alone when they’re all worked up about something…”

“Everyone’s on edge, got it.”

“Nightingale,” John said, voice unusually serious— serious enough to make Danny stop even without the hand on his arm. “I’m not saying this lightly. I like you, like you well enough for a psychopomp and whatever the fuck else you are at least. Tread lightly.”

“Got it, Constantine. I’ll work extra hard not to piss anyone off,” Danny said, patting John’s hand with his own tattooed one. Danny picked back up his same quick pace, but his mind now spun trying to figure out what exactly he was walking into. The dossier hadn’t gone into details, just conditions. Supposedly the risk— some side effect created by a villainous magical spell gone wrong— was presently and thoroughly contained. Danny would be able to observe the risk, the individual originally affected, and the items present at the time. He was not to interact directly with the risk, answer it’s questions, or under any circumstance touch it.

It read as a pretty standard contract magical unknown.

John wouldn’t be this concerned by a standard magical unknown. So what was he about to walk into? It seemed like he might actually want to listen to John this time, even if that was always a fifty-fifty chance of being an absurdly stupid idea.

Danny shifted his grip anxiously on the handle of his kit: an old traveling salesman’s briefcase fitted out with a careful collection of haphazard items. Most of the other occult practitioners mocked Danny’s tendency for used items. Half burned candles, old books wiped and rewritten, estate sale candy dishes— odd choices for most people, but for Danny they sang. They spilled the secrets of the world known and unknown to him. He had to trust that between his tools and his skills (let them believe he was a mere psychopomp), he would come out of this at least safe, if not with answers.

Didn’t mean that a few of his tattoos didn’t crawl in warning.

(Who knew what spot of skin that damn ink moth would wander to now.)

“Justice Leaguers,” Danny greeted with a nod as they finally finished winding through repetitive hallways and stopped outside a room.

“Nightingale, thank you for being able to attend to this so promptly,” Wonder Woman greeted him. Of the Justice League members (outside of the Darks) that Danny had interacted with on other consulting gigs she might be Danny’s favorite, so he offered her a smile.

“Of course, it sounded like things were possibly on a time table from the contract, so I’m glad I was between pressing matters,” Danny said. Right then his most pressing matter was a need to find a laundry mat, but the Justice League certainly didn’t need to know that.

“Right, well,” John jumped in when no one else said anything, not that Danny had expected much from Batman with how he was lurking like a shadow. “Er, this way.”

Danny glanced at the room label of ‘containment cells’ as the door unlocked with a clank and hissed open. After John’s warning, he wasn’t surprised that they were taking whatever this was seriously.

There was more white and gleaming metal behind the door. A neat row of spartan cells were set behind thick acrylic glass and metal. Danny’s eyes locked on the figure in the third cell. He stumbled.

He might be sick.

“What the fuck are you all doing?!” The words ripped from Danny in a snarl.

That was a protector spirit.

He brushed past Wonder Woman and through John’s reaching arm.

They had a protector spirit in a cell.

Intangibility washed over Danny, cold as always, as he stepped through the glass wall of the cell.

The spirit stopped in their pacing, the opaque red helmet tilting.

John screamed something at him.

The flashing red of alarms glinted off gleaming surfaces.

Danny reached out and rested his hand over the spirit’s sternum, and they practically crumpled around the touch. Gloved hands clung desperately to Danny’s arm.

A low growl rumbled in Danny’s chest. “They’re hurting you.”

They had a protector spirit in a cell.

How dare they.

----

AN: So, um, yeah. Still sick. Not a cold or allergies at all and not easy to clear up and prob a new life long thing. Which is great. Super cool. I needed more ways to be sick.

But have the start of this thing that I used to take my mind off things! My, what could be going on?? (Also why do I apparently have a tattooed Danny agenda?)

Stay delightful (and well), darlings!

I no longer tag people for various reasons. You can instead be notified by subscribing to the masterpost!

#dp x dc #dead on main #both ways at once

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yabakuboi · 1 month

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A Truth Acknowledged

one time i made a post about regency omegaverse steddie and i found it again so here's a potential part one if the spirit compels me again i'll continue

The house has been quiet for many years now, so Steve is not unused to the stillness that's long settled over Harrington House. He much prefers it, even. At twenty and four years, unwed and without a mother or a tutor to tame him, Steve has grown as wild as his home has grown quiet, left often to his own company. Since his presentation, he's roamed the hills of Loch Nora to his pleasure, long days of solitude interrupted only when his father calls him to his side for some soiree or ball, where Steve is bid to perform as a proper omega should: to dance, to simper, to laugh, to sing—and sometimes, as improper, to be pulled into secluded rooms to be sampled.

It's the reparations to be paid for a thing like him to be born. Steve bears it best he can, knowing he'll return home to be left to his own again. Quiet house, green hills, a loneliness he is safe in.

Until, of course, his father's pockets grow too shallow. And it is time for Steve to perform once more.

Except this time, there's a new face in Harrington House.

"Stephen," his father calls, all false pleasantry and cheer. "I'd like you to come meet young Mister Munson. He is our new neighbor, he and his uncle are staying up at the Thompson estate for the summer."

"I see," Steve says, trying to gather his thoughts between the wool gathering in his head. No one has visited their home since Steve's presentation. "I... I'm very glad to meet your acquaintance, Mister Munson."

Mister Munson, with his round face and large eyes, seems to struggle just as much as Steve does. "J-Just Eddie—I mean, Edward is fine," he says, stumbling over his words. He has a thick accent, and the air of a man learning to speak with the same pomp and confidence as Steve's father. "A pleasure to meet you, as well."

"I thought you might like to show Mister Edward the garden," his father says. He looks at Steve with cold calculation, and Steve feels himself being weighed and priced where he stands.

"Of course," Steve says, dipping his head.

Though Mister Edward doesn't offer his arm, Steve still takes it, hooking their elbows together as Mister Edward fumbles himself into a more proper position. Steve does it smoothly though, and gently pulls Mister Edward out into the sunlight.

He can't help but notice that the two relax minutely once they're out from his father's direct eye. Mister Edward does stay overly stiff though, as Steve leads them along the overgrown garden path, and when he looks up, Steve has to smother a smile to find Mister Edward's face pink across his nose and cheeks, all the way to his ears.

"You must forgive us, Mister Edward," Steve says, his voice soft and intimate. "The two of us are unused to visitors this far into the country."

"Nothing to forgive. If anything, please forgive me," he says, unsure and awkward. "I don't— Is it proper for me to be alone with you?"

Steve truly must fight the smile from his face. "Shall be frank with you, Mister Edward?"

"God, please," Edward breathes, a man out of his depth. "I'm not used to the ways you rich folk talk about nothing but actually say a whole lot."

Laughing, Steve jostles the two of them a little, glad he's gotten Mister Edward to relax enough to speak plainly. "Don't worry, I will translate for you, best I can," he says. Probably a little foolishly. Steve's having his first conversation with the man and already hoping to hang on his arm long enough have more.

Yet, it's worth it, because Edward turns to him with a smile on his face like Steve's handed him a Christmas miracle. "Will you, now?" he asks, a giddy grin crawling his face. "Well tell it to me, pretty thing, why in the world did your fancy father invite a ruffian like me here to meet someone as sweet as you?"

Steve feels himself pinken. Alphas of all types have said many a crude thing to him, but this earnest flirting easily turns Steve's head. What a foolish omega he is.

"I'm sure my father means for us to court and marry."

"My god! Are you sure? Is he mad?" Mister Edward gapes at him. "A proper noble like you married to me?"

Steve snorts and rolls his eyes. Proper. How silly!

"A proper noble like me is still an omega, and a man at that. I'm not a suitable pick to bear heirs," Steve tells him. "He's after your money."

"What money?" Edward laughs. Like his strings have been cut, Edward relaxes against him, his gait a swaying thing, pulling Steve along as they bump together along their ill-given journey. "I don't have a cent to me! It's all my uncle's, you know. He never married, and then my mother wrote him when I came of age and shipped me off to be his heir for a sack of coins. I grew up in London, working in factories."

He lifts his right hand to Steve, showing where two of his fingers are part missing at the first knuckle.

"I was born a roughneck, Stevie," he says, not looking at Steve anymore. Steve should scold him for being so familiar, but instead he finds he likes it. "Born poor and starving. My uncle can dress me up and give me all kinds of lessons, but I'll always be what I was born."

"Well," Steve says, shocked to find himself a little breathless. He watches Edward's profile for a moment longer, watching the unease settling on that handsome brow, twist in his mouth. "It seems we match rather well then, don't you think?"

Edward—Eddie turns to him with wide eyes. "Are you mad?" he asks. As he speaks, he leans in close, until their breaths share air. "Don't you want a good, proper alpha of good stock? Keep you nice and comfy up in some castle?"

"Not particularly," Steve tells him, truthfully. "My father would want nothing more than to marry me off to a high born alpha, to keep a house and have children, and to bring the Harrington name some sort of recognition once again."

Steve turns then, looking down the path and away from Eddie's eyes, so focused on Steve and his words. No one has listen to Steve speak with such attention before.

"I'd much rather marry for love," he admits on a quiet breath. Beside him, Eddie was a line of heat and weight, pressed against him, his gaze burning. "Or, if I can't have love, then at least for friendship. I'd rather not be alone anymore."

"I see," Eddie says.

Turning back to him, Steve gets caught once again in those intense eyes, dark and warm. He has to remind himself, again, that he's just met this alpha, that it's silly to entertain thoughts of love and companionship with a man he's only spoken to this once. Even if Eddie looks at Steve like he could look at him for the rest of his life.

"Well," Eddie says, turning back towards their destination, but letting his hand travel down Steve's arm, until he can link their fingers together. "I suppose we are quite a match, after all then."

Steve can't stop the smile that curves his lips this time, turns his head to try and hide it. "Yes," he agrees, "I suppose, we are."

#stranger things #steddie #my fic #catch me shoving a ton of backstory into 1.2k words hahaha #revisiting my austen and bronte roots #my steddies

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runesandramblings · 1 year

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I Just Want You

Word Count: 1400

Pairings: Fili x reader

Warnings: None

Description: Royal wedding plans begin to take their toll, but there's only one thing you require to make the day perfect.

Requested by anon so I don't have a way to tag you I'm sorry! But I hope you enjoy. 😇

“What do you think, nâtha? The lilies or the orchids?”

You buried your face in your hands. The pounding against your temples, something that had become a familiar sensation as of late, began to worsen as you tried to piece together any coherent sentence. There were only three words that came to mind, the same three words you’d uttered countless times over the past several weeks.

“I don’t know.”

The joy of yours and Fili’s engagement had subsided the moment you’d broken the news to your families. With FIli being the crown prince and heir, there was no way Dis and your mother would let it be a simple affair. Invitations had already been sent out to every corner of Middle Earth, and you’d been occupied from sunup to sundown every day with planning. The dress, the flowers, the food…

You were from a simple merchant family. The pomp and ceremony of royalty made no sense to you. Where you’d grown up, weddings were a simple affair. Most couples in your small village chose to elope rather than go through the bother of an elaborate ceremony. You’d have been more than happy to do the same. However, your mother and future mother in law had both been quick to dismiss the idea.

“It’s no matter, dear. We have time to decide.” Your mother pulled several small scraps of fabric, ranging from the purest snow white to the creamier shades of ivory. She laid them out against the table and gestured to each. “Which color do you think for the dress? We’ve got to begin sewing soon if it will be ready in time.”

Before you had the chance to respond, Dis laid out several different styles of gold and silver fabric beside the scraps your mother had laid down.

“And what of the trim? You’ve got to decide if you prefer gold accents or silver. But I do suppose that would have an effect on the choice of flowers…” She trailed off, lost in her own world of thought.

You could feel your pulse radiating against your temples as the migraine that had been forming worsened. This was the issue exactly. It wasn’t just selecting a dress. It was selecting a type of fabric, a trim, lace… And that had to coordinate with the flowers or else…

Or else what, exactly? Would the world cease to exist if the flowers and trim didn’t go together? Would Mahal himself descend from the sky if the food and the wine didn’t pair perfectly?

You looked from where you sat at the head of the long, carved wood table to the opposite end. Fili sat on his own, silently working through a stack of parchments Thorin had given him. He hadn’t been overly involved in the plans, as your mothers had taken over almost immediately. But you’d expressed to him how stressful the process had been, and he’d decided to come sit with you for moral support. He met your gaze and gave you a gentle smile. It sent butterflies through your stomach, as it always did. He was all you needed, truly. You could get married in the same, tattered old dress he’d met you in carrying a bouquet of wildflowers for all you cared. As long as he was there, it was all you required.

“(Y/N)?”

Your mother’s voice brought you back to the less desirable reality. She and Dis were both staring at you expectantly, the colored swatches of cloth still spread out across the table in front of you.

“Silver or gold-”

“First, she has to decide on a shade of white. Which shade do you prefer, (Y/N)?”

“Well it might help to decide on the accent first, then she can pick a white that goes with that.”

As Dis and your mother began speaking over each other you buried your face in your hands once again. The pounding against your temples became rhythmic, a steady thump that seemed to grow louder and louder as their voices overlapped. You felt as though you might go mad if the pounding and the questions didn't stop soon.

“(Y/N)-” Dis started.

“I don’t know!” You cried again, finally raising your head to look at the two of them. “I don’t know, okay? And I don’t care. Just pick a color. Whatever you both want.”

You flung yourself back in the chair, crossing your arms over your chest. It was unlike you to have such an outburst, but you were exhausted. There were too many questions, too many decisions. You’d be more than happy for them to make the choices and just tell you when and where to show up on the day of.

“And what do you want, amrâlimê?”

The three of you turned your attention to the end of the table as Fili piped up. He’d laid his parchments to the side. His eyes were not on either of your mothers, but on you. You could see the genuine concern etched in the lines that furrowed between his brows. He knew the planning had begun to take a toll, and now he was able to see the full amount of stress that you were under.

You felt tears begin to sting the corners of your eyes.

“I just want you.” You said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your mothers exchanged shameful glances across the table, finally seeming to realize just how much they’d piled on you at once. FIli’s expression softened as he continued to look at you, his eyes never breaking away to look at anyone else in the room.

“Could you leave us for a moment?” He asked.

Dis and your mother stood silently, collecting the fabric and other wedding items they’d strewn across the table. You felt Dis place a hand apologetically on your shoulder as she followed your mother from the room.

Once they’d gone Fili’s smile widened. He extended his hand to you, gesturing for you to come join him at the end of the table. You stood and quickly walked around to where he sat. Once you were within his arm’s reach he grabbed you, pulling you down by your waist and plopping you into his lap. As soon as your legs touched his he stretched his face up to your neck, peppering light kisses up and down your collarbones. You giggled as his mustache braids tickled the exposed skin of your neck, his lips working their way up to plant kisses along your cheeks. He finally found your mouth and pressed his delicately against yours, making it the gentlest and sweetest kiss of them all.

You felt a contented sigh escape your lips as he pulled you closer to him, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. You rested your chin on top of his head as your fingers began to slowly brush through his hair, careful as always not to disturb his perfectly placed braids. The feeling of his arms wrapped snugly around your waist had already alleviated the nervous pit in your stomach, and you wondered how it could have only been moments ago that you were stressed to the point of breaking down in tears. He was your safe place, your calm within the storm.

“We don’t have to make it into a spectacle, you know.” He murmured into the collar of your dress. “It can just be the two of us, whenever and wherever you want.”

“We can’t.” You said, wistfully. If only it were that simple.

“And who says so?”

“You’re the prince-”

“To hell with that.” He said, pulling back just enough to look up at you. “Thorin’s already given his blessing for us to skip the whole affair.”

“But our mothers-”

“To hell with them too.” His expression quickly changed from confidence to one of fear as he looked over his shoulder. “Don’t tell them I said that.”

You giggled again, pulling him closer to you as he nuzzled his face into your neck once more.

“Amrâlimê, I will go get Balin right now and have him perform the ceremony in this very room.” He continued. “I don’t need the flowers or the food or the party. I just want you, too.”

You pulled back again, just enough to look down into his eyes. He was smiling up at you, his eyes sparkling with the same joy as they had the first day you met. He was all you needed, now and forever.

“I think that sounds absolutely perfect.” You said, brushing back a few loosened strands of his golden hair. “On one condition.”

He looked at you expectantly as you continued.

“You have to tell our mothers.”

nâtha - daughter

amrâlimê - my love

#fili imagine #fili durin #fili x reader #fili #fili and kili #kili and fili #fili oneshot #Fili Durin imagine #Fili Durin oneshot #Fili Durin x reader #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit one shot #the hobbit oneshot #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit #the hobbit movies #the hobbit trilogy #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings oneshot

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hookhausenschips · 13 days

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You Will Never Be Lovelier Than Now {OP81}

500 Follower Special!!!

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Summary: In the whirlwind world of Formula 1, a digital artist finds an unexpected love in the form of Oscar, a philosophical racer whose life is lived at breakneck speed. Their unconventional relationship leads them to elope in Iceland, forging a sanctuary away from the public eye and redefining the meaning of love amidst the chaos of their fast-paced lives.

Taglist

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It all started in the rush of engines and the thrill of the chase, under the bright lights of the Formula 1 circuits. I met Oscar at a post-race event, one where the sparkle of champagne wasn’t nearly as dazzling as the conversation we fell into beside the polished silver trophies.

He was all smiles, bashful yet confident in a way that only those who have mastered the art of racing at over two hundred miles per hour could be. His Australian accent, coupled with genuine enthusiasm about my far less glamorous career in digital art, was endearing.

We talked long into the night, the initial spark ignited by shared interests in technology, speed, and a peculiar fondness for quiet moments amid chaos. Oscar was different. Beneath the racer’s helmet and the public persona, I discovered a philosophical soul who questioned everything around him, including the very nature of our fast-paced lives.

Our relationship progressed with the speed reminiscent of his races. We spent months together, jet-setting from one country to another, our lives a blur of new cities, exotic foods, and the ever-present roar of the crowd. But in those rare moments of stillness—the soft, early mornings when the world was just ours—we shared fears and dreams. It was during one such morning, while watching the sunrise over the marina in Monaco, that I realized how deeply I had fallen.

Oscar’s career was skyrocketing, and with each race, his life became more public. Mine, however, remained shrouded behind screens, crafting visuals that perhaps thousands would see but never attribute to a face. The disparity in our worlds brought an acute awareness of the fleeting nature of our time together.

“Any moment might be our last,” I murmured one evening while we lay on a secluded beach in Spain, watching the stars, a rare escape from the public eye. “Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”

Oscar turned to me, his expression thoughtful, the sea breeze ruffling his hair. “Then let’s not waste any of our moments,” he replied, his hand squeezing mine. “Let’s make them all count.”

The idea of eloping came naturally. We didn’t want the pomp and spectacle that would undoubtedly accompany a traditional wedding, especially with his rising fame. We craved simplicity, the authenticity of a moment shared without the world watching.

We chose Iceland, a land as wild and beautiful as the life we lived. No reporters, no cameras—just the raw landscapes and the promise of starting our life together enveloped by the drama of volcanoes and ice.

The ceremony was nothing more than us, a local official, and two witnesses from the quaint inn where we stayed. We spoke our vows amidst the windswept plains near the Eldhraun lava field, the green moss underfoot vibrant against the gray skies, a stark contrast to the colorful, ever-moving paddocks of Formula 1.

On that windswept plain in Iceland, with only the stark, raw beauty of nature as our witness, Oscar and I stood hand in hand, ready to commit our lives to each other in a ceremony as unconventional as our journey together. The chilly breeze tugged at our clothes, a stark reminder of the solitary path we were about to take. Here’s what I remember of our vows, spoken from the heart, each word a promise carved into the time we chose to create together.

Before saying his vows, Oscar stood silently beside me, taking in the stark, raw beauty of Iceland's landscape. The windswept plains seemed to echo the tumultuous excitement he felt inside. He looked out over the horizon, where the cold, majestic beauty of the volcanic earth met the soft grey of the sky, a perfect backdrop for such a momentous step in our lives.

In those few quiet moments before he began to speak, Oscar seemed to gather not just his thoughts but also the enormity of the commitment we were about to make. His eyes, usually so clear and focused whether on the track or off, were deep pools of emotion, reflecting a mix of anticipation, joy, and a profound sense of responsibility.

He took a deep breath, the kind that steadies nerves and centers the heart, and when he turned to look at me, his gaze was intense and full of love. There was a slight quiver in his smile, betraying the nerves even a seasoned racer couldn’t completely hide at such a personal and pivotal moment.

Yet, there was also a steadfast certainty in his expression, a confident assurance that stepping into this new chapter with me was exactly where he wanted to be.

As he took my hands in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze, Oscar's reaction was one of deep commitment mixed with exhilarating excitement. He was about to declare his devotion in a setting far removed from the exhilarating roar of engines and cheering crowds, yet he was every bit as poised as he was at the starting line of a race. This was a different kind of adrenaline, one fueled by emotional depth rather than speed.

Then, with a voice clear and steady, touched by the softness that true vulnerability brings, Oscar began to speak his vows. Each word was imbued with the sincerity and earnestness of a man ready to navigate not just the highs of life but its unpredictable turns and challenges, all the while holding my hand.

“Y/N, before you entered my life, I lived in a world measured in milliseconds, a world of constant motion and noise. Yet, from the moment we met, you brought a serenity that slowed down those rushing seconds, making each one of them infinitely richer.”

As Oscar spoke his vows, the words seemed to reverberate through the vast, open landscape of Iceland, the weight and warmth of each sentence settling around us like a soft cloak. I listened, the wind carrying his voice, sometimes a whisper against the gusts, but each word struck a chord deep within me.

“I vow to be your sanctuary, just as you have been mine. In the high-speed chaos of my life—on tracks, under spotlights—I promise to be the peace we both seek when we come together. I will honor your dreams, for they are as beautiful and vast as the landscapes we now stand upon.”

His promise to be my sanctuary, just as I had been his, filled me with a profound sense of peace and belonging. The idea of being the calm in his tempestuous world, and him being mine, was something incredibly special.

As he spoke of honoring my dreams, standing by my side through every victory and challenge, a wave of gratitude washed over me. Here was a man who not only cherished me but respected and supported the paths I chose to wander, both with him and on my own.

“I promise to laugh with you, to lift you up on difficult days, and to share in your joy during the good days. Just as we share this quiet corner of the world today, I will share with you all my days, all my victories, and all my challenges.

With you, I am home. No matter where we are in the world, so long as I have your hand in mine, I am truly, deeply home. As we travel this life, I pledge to make our journey one of continual discovery, filled with love and understanding. I vow not just to grow old with you, but to grow with you, as we navigate the winding roads of our existence together.”

As he finished, with the declaration of being truly, deeply home whenever I was with him, tears welled up in my eyes. In the stark, raw beauty of our surroundings, Oscar’s vows felt like a beacon, guiding the way forward for us both. It wasn’t just about facing the world together; it was about creating a world of our own amidst whatever chaos lay beyond our control.

When it was my turn to speak, my voice carried my emotional response, quivering slightly but underscored by the strength of my feelings. I responded not just with words, but with every fiber of my being, ready to embark on this lifelong adventure with him.

Oscar’s vows had not just reached my ears; they had resonated with my soul, reinforcing that no matter where life’s races took us, we had already won by finding each other.

As I spoke my vows, I watched Oscar's reaction closely, acutely aware of the gravity of the moment. His face was a canvas of emotions, each word I spoke painting strokes of joy and profound love across his features.

As I finished, his hands tightened around mine, his voice catching slightly as he whispered, "Thank you," too overwhelmed for more words. We both laughed softly, a light, shared moment amidst the emotional intensity, acknowledging the tears that mirrored each other’s.

Yes, we both cried, not out of sadness, but from a profound sense of love and unity. These weren't just tears of joy; they were manifestations of the promise and passion that defined our relationship, a testament to the depth of our bond and the shared journey ahead. In that remote, windswept landscape, our vows became not just words but the very pillars upon which we would build our future.

“Oscar, you have shown me worlds I never imagined, and you’ve taught me the true meaning of passion—not just the passion one has for their craft, but for life, for love, for the quiet moments that exist between the noise. Today, as we stand surrounded by this eternal landscape, I vow to be your partner in every adventure, your confidante in every silence.”

Oscar's eyes, so often alight with a competitive fire on the racetrack, softened considerably, shimmering with moisture as my promises unfolded. There was a certain vulnerability in his gaze, a raw openness that perhaps only such solemn, sincere moments can draw out. As I pledged to stand by him through victories and challenges, to share in the vibrant tapestry of our lives together, his lips parted slightly, an unspoken acknowledgment of the depth of our commitment.

“I promise to support your dreams, to stand by your side as you continue to chase the horizon, knowing that when the sunset comes, it is you and I against the backdrop of the world. I vow to create with you a life that transcends the ordinary, a life that, like your races, is lived in vivid color, full speed, and with unbridled joy.”

When I vowed to create a life that transcends the ordinary, to weave our shared experiences into a narrative of mutual growth and exploration, a single tear escaped down his cheek. It was a silent testament to the emotions stirred by the promises we were making. Oscar is not one to cry easily, but the sincerity and the sacredness of the occasion—the stark, untouched beauty around us, the profound connection between us—moved him deeply.

In the noise of the crowds and the silence of our solitude, I will be there. I promise to listen, to hear not just your words, but the silent wishes of your heart. Together, we will write our story, not with ink, but with the moments we seize and cherish.

Oscar, in you, I have found my partner, my muse, my challenger, and my greatest comfort. I pledge to cherish this gift of love we have been given, to nurture it amidst our wanderings and wonderings. I vow to love you not just for who you are now but for who you will become as our lives unfold side by side.”

With these vows, spoken in the heart of Iceland's wilderness, we tied our lives together, not just in the presence of nature, but in the essence of our shared spirit—adventurous, unyielding, and deeply connected.

“Our lives have been a series of races, each more demanding than the last,” Oscar said, his voice steady against the wind. “But this… this is our circuit, the one we choose, the one we shape together.”

With rings exchanged and kisses shared, our commitment was sealed away from the world’s eyes, our hearts intertwined like the intricate paths of the courses he raced. We spent days exploring the rugged terrain, our nights filled with conversations about everything and nothing, our laughs echoing against the stark, expansive beauty of Icelandic nights.

When we finally returned to the public eye, it was as a united front. Oscar’s career continued to flourish, and I found joy in creating art that now sometimes featured hidden glimpses of our shared life, subtle textures in a digital landscape inspired by real emotions and adventures.

Eloping with Oscar didn’t just defy conventions—it redefined what our relationship meant in the grand spectacle of our lives. In the world of Formula 1, where every second on the clock counts, we found a way to make our own time, our own rules. We weren’t just bound by love, but by the shared understanding that in the whirlwind of our existence, we had carved out a sanctuary just for us, proof that even in the fast lanes, you can find a place to simply be.

After our quiet, intensely personal ceremony in Iceland, returning to the vibrant, bustling world of Formula 1 felt almost surreal. We knew the news of our elopement would soon ripple through the paddocks and beyond, sparking curiosity and surprise. Oscar and I decided to share our news with the McLaren team first, wanting them to hear it directly from us rather than through the whirlwind of media speculation.

It was during a pre-race team meeting at the McLaren Technology Centre that we chose to announce our marriage. The room was typically charged with the focused energy of upcoming races, engineers and strategists pouring over data and discussing logistics. Oscar squeezed my hand briefly before we both stood up, signaling a pause in the discussions.

"I have something personal to share with all of you," Oscar began, his voice steady but revealing a hint of his excitement. The room quieted down, all eyes on us. "Y/N and I decided to take a significant step in our relationship. We got married last week in Iceland, just the two of us, away from the racing world and everything else."

The reaction was immediate and overwhelmingly positive. Cheers and applause filled the room, the team expressing their happiness for us. The McLaren team had always been like a family, and their genuine enthusiasm and support were palpable.

Lando Norris, Oscar's teammate and one of his closest friends within the circuit, was among the first to leap up and congratulate us. His reaction was a mix of surprise and sheer joy.

"Man, you really pulled a fast one there!" Lando exclaimed, clapping Oscar on the back with a wide grin. "Couldn't be happier for you both. When’s the party, though? You know we have to celebrate this properly, right?"

Lando’s response was typical of his character—light-hearted and jovial, always ready to inject humor into any situation. It was clear from his reaction and the reactions of the others that the team not only supported us but was also eager to celebrate our union.

Later, the team’s principal offered his congratulations and spoke briefly about the importance of family and personal happiness, reinforcing the team's support for us both on and off the track. This gesture from the management meant a lot to us, affirming that we were part of an organization that valued its members deeply.

The news eventually did make its way into the media, and while the racing world buzzed with the unexpected announcement, the overwhelming sentiment mirrored that of our McLaren family—supportive, enthusiastic, and full of congratulations. The McLaren social media channels even posted a playful nod to our elopement, featuring racing-themed well wishes, which fans around the world echoed.

In the high-speed, high-pressure world of Formula 1, where personal lives often take a backseat to professional demands, the acceptance and celebration of our marriage by the McLaren team were not only a relief but a profound joy. It solidified our sense of belonging and underscored the deeply human side of the motorsport community.

Thus, as we move forward, every race, every city, and every fleeting moment carries the weight of our shared secret, a testament to the quiet understanding that what we have is ours alone—a circuit of our own, unmarred by the relentless ticking of the world’s clock.

—————————————

OP81 Taglist: @tallrock35, @yourbane, @evie-119, @asparklysoul, @dhanihamidi, @leclercdior, @ilivbullyingjeongin

F1 Taglist: @hiireadstuff, @really-fucking-tired, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery

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sayruq · 6 months

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The Death Rattle of American Domination

In spite of their confidence, the Biden administration and "Israel" have miscalculated the impenetrability of their public relations campaign, which clothes itself in doublespeak and chilling euphemisms for mass slaughter. The invocation of the meekness of "Israel" and its "right to self-defense" had all but stifled any reference to Palestinian self-determination—but now, Gaza has become a siren call for the global rank and file, who continue to disrupt and bring cities to a standstill. And on their lips is not just Gaza but "Palestine". The administrative pomp and circumstance masking "Israel's" obscene occupation is crumbling. Palestinians are agents of history in "Israel's" war of attrition, and they are refusing to abide by their occupier's terms; instead, they are consciously aware that history will absolve them and their Resistance. The United States' colonial outpost cannot hold, nor can it continue the slow genocide of the Palestinians without a price. Editorial sympathy for the Israeli worldview is being challenged by a new generation which will not abide by the Zionist adage that "the old will die and the young will forget". For every Qana, there is a Bint Jbeil; for every Jabalia, there is a Beit Hanoun. For every death, new life will emerge, more resolute than the last. Despite what has unfolded, Gaza still stands. The "Middle East" of the American imagination—of domination, fealty, and Arab humiliation—has fallen, and a new, more defiant region has risen in its place. Long live the new world.

Great article. I urge you all to read it.

#yemen #jerusalem #tel aviv #current events #palestine #free palestine #gaza #free gaza #news on gaza #palestine news #news update #war news #war on gaza #liberation #palestinian resistance

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jo-harrington · 5 months

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You don't have time for Christmas.

Work and home and this friend in a crisis.

Work and home and, let's be honest, probably work again.

And before you know it, it's December 20th and you don't even have any decorations up. Barely anyone does. The neighborhoods that are usually lit up with lights and figurines enough to rival the Griswolds are noticably dark this year.

What holiday? What festivity? It's wake up and hustle and lay in bed in a dreamless sleep. Then wake up to do it all again.

You are a cog in a machine.

You don't know how to voice these things, your displeasure, the secret yearning for the pomp and circumstance and childhood whimsy for the holiday season that's tucked somewhere deep inside your weary body. You can't bring yourself to indulge in it.

You're tired.

You glance down the card aisle at the grocery store but don't stop to grab any for friends. You pick up a bag of peanut butter bells for your candy jar at work but then second guess it at the checkout. Gifts are bought with as much care as you could, but you can't even bother to wrap them as prettily as you usually would.

You can try again for Valentine's. Chocolate hearts with the crispy rice inside and roses for your coworkers. Something.

But this year, you don't have time for Christmas.

And he notices.

It starts with cookies.

He likes to bake--started with boxed cake mix and then you bought him a handheld torch one year so he could try his hand at creme brûlée after he watched a little too much Jacques Pepin on PBS--so it's not anything suspicious. No ulterior motives detected.

Only he's dug up the little handwritten notebook full of your grandma's favorite recipes. Grandpa's handwriting because he wrote it while she dictated. Cookies he's never tasted before himself but seemed to have nailed exactly the way she made them. The love he poured into the treats matched hers exactly.

He brings you a plate and a cup of cocoa when you come home and collapse on the couch.

You cry when you eat them. And he lets you.

Then he digs out the tree from the garage.

The one-car garage that you pay extra for doesn't fit either of your vehicles but fits all your crap. You both vow to clean up at some point and never do. He slogs through the boxes of old band tees that don't fit him and kitchen crap that you don't miss or really need, to get to the plastic 6 ft tree that used to have stickers to note which bough went in what slot but those are long gone.

He spends hours figuring it out and decorating it, and imagine your surprise when you come home to an otherwise-dark apartment illuminated by the fat, colorful incandescent bulbs that you're sure he spent a significant amount of time untangling. You'd both given up last year and went without lights. But there they are.

"What?" you drop your bag by the door. "What is this?"

"I dunno," he grins proudly. "Thought it would be nice. Get in the Christmas spirit. Saved the star for you to put on top if you want."

And you did. You wanted it so bad. Ever since you were a kid, you were the one to put the star on top of the tree.

After it's up, you marvel at the special care he's taken with the important ornaments. Fragile little wooden ones from your grandma, popsicle stick frames with baby pictures of both of you, a macaroni snowman that he gave his mom once-upon-a-time that his uncle had stashed away, and then a fancy hallmark one you got the year you moved in together.

They all have special places on the tree and tell a story of your lives, separate and then together.

You both lay under the tree that night, staring up at the glittering lights as you hold hands.

Finally it's Christmas Eve. Which to him really meant nothing, but to you meant the world. Christmas Days were spent with individual families but Christmas Eves of old meant a big dinner and time spent with your cousins and It's a Wonderful Life on the TV.

It's a tradition that got put to the wayside as everyone got too old and too tired. As you started getting scheduled to work, like this year. And it's almost worse this year, as you've done a stretch of you-can't-remember-how-many days, that you even turned down an invitation for the two of you from your mom for a small dinner with her.

You're exhausted by the time you get home and, more than anything, you're looking forward to the day off tomorrow.

Not the holiday. The day off.

Still, you remember to bring in the handful of gifts from their hiding place in your trunk. You don't really do gifts between the two of you anymore. Nothing big at least. Just a cheesy little thing. Something fun, not something serious. But you did a little more this year than you usually would--all of the OT you'd clocked for one, and too many things you saw that you knew would make him smile for another.

You try to tip toe into the house as quietly as possible so you can throw the boxes under the tree and shower but he's vigilant. He's been at the stove cooking for a while, and he greets you at the door as you shut it behind you.

"I thought we said no big gifts," he admonishes you and snatches the boxes from your hands. The wrapping paper isn't festive--just brown craft paper you stole borrowed from work since you wrapped on your lunch--but you managed to slap on some red and green bows from the drugstore that you grabbed the other day.

"They're not big," you explained. "I promise."

"Well neither are mine," he winked.

You slap a hand against his chest and then give him a kiss in greeting and thanks.

"One better be the RC racer I wanted when I was nine," he mutters against your lips.

"Hmmm, you're just gonna have to wait," you tell him. "And no shaking the boxes.

You're almost a little ticked off'; one of them is the RC racer.

You kick off your shoes as the smell finally hits you.

Dinner.

Thick and savory and fragrant.

Some kind of fish and roasted potatoes and the starchiness of a pasta and the tang of its sauce.

Recipes, again, taken from your grandma's little notebook. They stir something deep inside of you. That yearning you never voiced.

The weariness that's been slowly building within you finally comes to a head when you make it to the kitchen and see the pots and pans and two plates already portioned out.

An ice cold beer for him, and a Shirley temple, extra cherries, for you.

"Remember when you told me," he comes up behind you and his arms snake around your midsection, "that you and your cousins would sneak extra maraschino cherries from the fridge when your gram wasn't looking. And then she went to go get them for the pistachio salad and they were gone."

Your knees shake and you practically collapse against him.

"Speaking of which, there is a pistachio salad in the fridge for dessert."

"Why?" you sniff.

"Because that's actually my favorite, so sorry to your grandma's tiramisu." He pecks a kiss to the side of your head and rocks you back and forth. "But if you want to make that for New Year's Eve, I won't say no."

"No," you let out a watery laugh. "Why are you so good to me, why did you do all of this?"

"Because I know it's been a hard few weeks. Few months." You can feel him shrug. "Fuck, it's been hard for me too but...I know this is one of your favorite parts of the year and you just...haven't been in the spirit for it. So whatever I could do to make it happen for you..."

You turn in his arms and bury your face in his shoulder, in his neck, so he doesn't see your tears. Again. Worse this time as you begin to shake from your sobs. He shushes you, runs a hand over your back, and leaves kiss after kiss against your head.

"Baby, I'll do anything for you," he tells you, voice thick with emotion. "I just want you to be happy."

"I am happy," you whine against his skin. "I'm so...so happy."

"Good."

"Thank you," you repeat it over and over again until it feels like you're empty of all the void and indifference that have filled you for the past few months are gone. In their place just...love and gratitude for him.

"Merry Christmas baby. I love you."

"I love you too, Merry Christmas."

#Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie Munson fic #it honestly could be anyone but it's him #christmas fic #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #stranger things fic

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hardlyinteresting · 3 months

Text

To have and to hold

Thoughts about Hotch getting remarried.

It makes him nervous the first time he thinks about proposing. Of course, it's the natural progression of the stable relationship he's been cultivating with you, but the prospect terrifies him. He gets past it though, and reminds himself to live in the current moment and trust his loved ones.

I think he still has his old wedding band and honestly, probably Haley's tucked away in a keepsake box somewhere. I think it's been a very long time since he's thought about them. But they meant something once upon a time. At first his wedding band was something he was clinging on to, still somewhat in denial about the end of his marriage. When Haley died he kept her ring thinking Jack might want them someday.

His first ring was yellow gold, I think if he got remarried he'd insist on having a white gold, platinum, or silver ring. He wants something different and he doesn't want to carry old memories and feelings into a new relationship dynamic. You deserve better. He deserves better.

Controversial, but I don't think Aaron would be a big glitzy, ring kind of guy. I think if he’s going to get married again it’s going to be about the relationship more than any external expectations. He’s beyond happy to be with you, but he doesn’t feel the need to prove anything to the world. If you want a massive ring it’s yours, but I think he’d pick something high quality and stunning regardless. I think there’s a possibility that he wouldn’t have a ring for you when he proposed. Like I can see him just blurting out the question one night.It's a special and shared moment even if it’s not premeditated. He’d be kicking himself internally for not doing something special for you, but you’re beside yourself happy anyway. You’d go to pick out a ring together. It's something you're going to wear forever and he wants you to be happy with it. He pays more than enough attention to what jewelry you normally wear, and what styles you gravitate towards, he could easily make an educated guess and pick out the perfect ring but again I think he'd like the idea of it being a shared moment. Once you have the ring he’d 10000% propose again “properly” this time before slipping the ring onto your finger.

It terms of the wedding itself, I think he'd be happy having a wedding whatever size you pleased. He'd be equally as content going to the court house for a civil service as he would be having a large ceremony. For him it's about the union more than it is about the pomp of the occasion. I do think that if you had a larger ceremony you'd be legally married on paper the week before, simply because it makes the paperwork easier.

He definitely asks Jack if he's comfortable with you guys getting married long before he proposes. Jack is his priority, and him being happy, comfortable, and excited by the idea of you guys getting married is the confirmation Aaron needs to know he's doing the right thing.

Request Guidlines | Request here! | Masterlist

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner #hotch x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner fluff

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fanfic-obsessed · 10 months

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Fundemental Cultural Misunderstanding

Can I just say that there is so much humor potential in Star as far as cultural misunderstandings go.

Try this AU on for size.

-Note:Though it is not necessary for this idea, it is important to me for you to know that in this world Anakin did not slaughter the Tuskens. He reached Shimi in time to save her and his focus was getting her to safety. Thus his relationship with Padme is much healthier.-

Anakin on a fundamental, and somewhat deliberate, level misunderstands some parts of Jedi culture. He believes that Jedi cannot get married. In this world, this is not true.

Marriage in this Jedi culture includes a marriage bond between all parties that, if not set up correctly, can do a fair amount of damage (and even when set up correctly doesn’t provide more than a sense of the other person's physical condition and emotions; rarely bonded might be compatible enough that that they can track each other through the bond). This is particularly true if one of the parties is not Force sensitive, or one of the parties is particularly Force Sensitive. So there is a lot of pomp and ceremony around getting married in the Jedi tradition to make sure the bond is correctly set up. Also consent is such a large portion of Jedi culture, so extra pains are taken to make sure non force sensitives understand what such a bond might mean…to the point where it freaks out most non force sensitives. This all culminates in, by the time of the prequels, most Jedi just don’t get married.

-It should also be noted that marriage as a legal institution and marriage as a cultural institution are actually two very different things, though they are often conflated. Marriage as a legal institution means absolutely nothing to Jedi, and in fact many cultures, because the rights granted by the legal institution of marriage either don’t apply to Jedi or are covered by other Jedi related laws.-

This is also misunderstood by the Galaxy at large. Also, because of this misunderstanding most cultures do not discuss their marriage customs with Jedi, sure it might come up organically but no one thinks that this is a cultural norm that the Jedi need to know. Which means as much as the Galaxy misunderstands the Jedi’s marriage customs, the Jedi misunderstand most other cultures' marriage customs as well. In fact the Jedi, through generations of a benign misunderstanding, believe that most cultures will not discuss their marriage customs with Jedi, so all they can go on is their own observations.

Picture if you will, little padawans vibrating their way into the Archives, up to the nearest archivist, who drops everything because the little Padawan wants to report that they ATTENDED A WEDDING.

This leads to the archives being chock full of conflicting information about the various marriage customs throughout the galaxy, because anything that happens at a wedding now becomes a TRADITION of that planet, even things might be just a preference of the people marrying, or even a happenstance. The Jedi have all collectively agreed that they are just gonna roll with it, no matter how strange the custom or if it contradicts anything else (It is not like they can get information directly from the source after all).

Now when Anakin got married to Padme, he thought that Jedi cannot marry. He thinks that his elopement would have to be a secret. He does not realize that he broadcasted his joy at marrying Padme to every Force Sensitive in the galaxy (no seriously, there are Force Sensitives on planets that don’t even have space flight yet, on the other side of the galaxy that felt an abrupt and incomprehensible wave of utter joy-some of those were physiologically incapable of feeling joy like near humans and had to lay down for a while). Also, not that he realized it, the part of his Force Signature (which Jedi are taught in the creche how to read) that deals with identity flashed with the equivalent neon lighted dashboard in Times Square that he was ‘Mr. Padme Naberrie’ from that point forward.

So when Anakin leaves on a mission, unmarried, and comes back very married, but clearly hiding it, it is quickly noticed. But no one thinks that it is Anakin who does not trust them. Of course not, he is family. They decide that this must be some heretofore unknown Naboo marriage TRADITION, elopement followed by hiding the marriage.

No one, not a single jedi in 10,000, thought to ask Anakin directly.

Several Archivists promptly write some very well written papers on this tradition, and how it fits into their other knowledge, basically filling in the gaps to create a tradition out of whole cloth (even though they are acting in earnest).

The war still starts, with all that entrails. But every Jedi knows about Anakin’s ‘secret’ marriage. The little ones all giggle about it. Most are eagerly waiting for the tradition of hiding to be complete, because surely ‘The Man Without Fear’ and his wife would also want to marry in the Jedi tradition. There was so little to be excited about these days that everyone bought into this notion, even those that had long decided they would not go through the process of the Jedi Marriage.

The children in the creche insist on making decorations for the eventual Jedi Wedding. In fact there were multiple sets of decorations, depending on where the happy couple wanted the ceremony performed. Just rooms and rooms of decorations and drawings and artwork of all kinds.

The High Council, including Obi wan, started researching to make sure they knew all the steps and traditions for the Wedding backwards and forwards whenever they had the chance. The last time a Jedi Wedding had been performed was 200 years earlier and enough had happened since that even those who were alive during that time were a bit fuzzy on the details. They wanted to be ready to support Anakin and Padme in any way possible. Padme’s biometrics are quietly added to the Temple’s banks; ready to be activated as soon as the couple is ready. A plan is put together so that Padme can be quickly evacuated if there was an active threat against Anakin specifically, or Jedi adjacent beings in general.

And the Archivists are practically having duels to see who would get to speak to the happy couple once the period of hiding is done. There is hope throughout the archives that maybe, if they ask really nicely, Padme would be willing to answer a few questions on Naboo marriage traditions (All the Archivists want to learn so badly, all they want to do is be able to learn. Can they please learn).

Perhaps if it had gone on much longer someone would have cottoned on to how stressed this secret was making Anakin. Maybe not. Perhaps this world still could have ended in unimaginable tragedy.

Perhaps in another world like this. In this world, we look to humor instead of horror.

A little over a year into the war several of the youngling clans, ages ranging from about 4-6, got to go on a tour of the Senate. One of the younglings (Age 4, species was Sabetue and was genderless) got separated and couldn’t find a clone guard or anyone they recognized. They were wandering and scared, but somehow made it up to the level where Padme’s office is. And the Youngling recognized Padme’s Force signature as Master Skywalker’s wife, so they knew they would be safe with her.

So now Padme has a small Jedi child in her office. Thankfully she was not in a meeting. She manages to get a hold of the Guard, who send up two of creche masters, who had been beside themselves with worry. While in her office the child said things that made it clear that the child knew about Padme’s marriage to Anakin and how they couldn’t wait to see how pretty she would be in the Jedi Wedding. One of the Crechemasters very gently reminded the child that Anakin and Padme might decide not to get married in the Jedi Tradition, that it had to be their choice and followed up with:

“And if we forced them…”

The child piped back with a solemn “we would be meanies”

One of the creche masters brought the child back down to the group while the other remained behind. First to thank Padme for finding their lost child. Then also to apologize for the child breaking the Hiding Tradition, expressing a hope that this would not have any negative impact on Padme’s marriage.

The Crechmaster seemed so proud at saying ‘Hiding Tradition’ that Padme did not have the heart to tell them that she had no idea what they were talking about (they are very proud of remembering what the Archivists were calling this tradition). They continue to have a brief conversation where Padme learned a number of things:

The Jedi, every single one of them, knew about Padme’s marriage.

They are all, every single one of them, actively supportive instead of the at best disapproving she thought they would be.

The Jedi somehow believe that Padme and Anakin are hiding their marriage over a Naboo Tradition

There are rooms full of crafts created specifically to decorate for her wedding in the Jedi Tradition created by hordes of earnest younglings.

The Jedi are very into consent.

Anakin is not due back on Coruscant for another week, and during that week Padme made discrete inquiries (oddly enough these are actually discrete) that told her nothing important about what was going on and driving her to distraction. So Anakin comes back to Padme nearly screaming at him ‘Why do the Jedi think we are hiding our marriage over a Naboo tradition?’

Anakin very much does not know but suggests that they ask the Chancellor (Anakin has very much been conditioned by the Chancellor to turn to him first in any instance of confusion).

Padme stares at him for a moment, tells him that is a stupid idea and to call Obi Wan.

Anakin does not want to call Obi Wan. He does not want to tell Obi Wan about their marriage and get in trouble.

Padme stares at him with the dead eyes of someone dealing with too much ridiculous information at once, then says ‘Call Kenobi’.

Anakin obeys.

Obi Wan comes over, they all sit down and Padme very calmly tells Obi Wan that she and Anakin are married. Obi Wan immediately begins radiating blinding excitement. He congratulates them and starts to ask about having a Jedi wedding before deflating again and asking if not pretending he was surprised would ruin anything. He offers to go out and they can do it again, he can pretend to be shocked.

Padme reassures him. Anakin starts to express his surprised (in a way that would have made it really clear about why he was hiding his marriage) but Padme quickly interrupts him, asking about Jedi Wedding traditions and lets Obi Wan ramble really happily about the research that the High Council had been doing to make sure they can recreate those traditions if Padme and Anakin want.

Obi Wan leaves with a promise that Padme and Anakin would come to speak with the High Council to make sure all the legalities (making sure everything is set up so that Padme can come and go as she pleases at the temple, and have a login to access the Archives, and would it be possible for her to come in for a baseline check up so that medical their records are up to date) are taken care of. As soon he is gone Padme grabs Anakin by the collar and goes ‘we can never tell them’

Anakin goes ‘what?’

‘We can never tell the Jedi why we were hiding our marriage. I’ll contact my parents as soon as it is morning on Naboo. They can back us up. We can say it is an old family tradition to hide the marriage for the first year. It isn’t used much, but after being in the public eye and with the War I was feeling superstitious, ok?’

Anakin goes ‘What, Why?’

Padme shakes at the arm in her hand, ‘telling the other Jedi that you didn’t trust them with your marriage would break their hearts. Do you want to be the reason small children are crying?’

Anakin looked far too considering for Padme's piece of mind, and what little sanity she had left.

‘Let me put it this way, do you want to be what finally break’s Obi wan’s heart? That man was vibrating with excitement to celebrate our wedding so hard I could feel in the Force.’

Anakin deflated, ‘Oh. No.’

Padme’s parents laugh their ass off that she needs to create a long held family tradition because she doesn’t want to admit to the Jedi that she had thought they would react badly to her marriage. They agree to do it.

Twenty four years later Obi Wan helps Leia Naberrie meet up with Han Solo in order to Elope in the long held family tradition (Bringing with them only R2 to follow the actual tradition closer than they realize). Obi Wan very carefully leaves before Han arrives, so that he can truthfully say he does not know that they eloped.

Leia’s twin Luke does not need to elope, as he followed his Uncle Obi Wan into the Jedi (an unrelated note he also followed Obi Wan into the mindset of ‘Why Monogamy when Harems naturally occur’-From that day the war ends Obi Wan has no less than three clones with him at all times; he also appears to have a lover, a friend, or an antagonist that he has weirdly sexual dialogue with on every planet he visits. Or Hondo Ohnaka, who has a category all his own. The years that Boba Fett comes to the holiday meals as one of Luke’s plus 6’s-He couldn't choose just one and no one would think of making him- are among the most awkward of most of their lives.)

#star wars #star wars the clone wars #fanfiction prompt #star wars au #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #codywan #bamf obi wan #no order 66 #Obi Wan has a Harem #the clone wars #The Clones Love Obi WAn #anidala #Anakin does not go to the Darkside #elopement

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sprout-fics · 9 months

Note

Gaz and fem!reader on their wedding day? At a garden or forest of sorts in the English countryside?

Oh I adored this

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“Stop fidgeting.”

Gaz straightens, swallowing thickly on years of posture from his military training. Soap is at his side, voice low so as to not draw attention from the guests sitting in their chairs before them. It’s a perfect spring day in the English countryside, in the manor they’ve chosen for the ceremony with its lush rose garden, carefully manicured with unfurling pastel blossoms.

It should be something out of a fairytale, but Gaz is nervous.

What if he slips up? What if he stutters on his vows? Bloody hell, what if he cries?

His agitation is clear, and he again tells himself it’s only nerves, that there’s no way he wouldn’t go through with this, it’s just all this pomp and circumstance is starting to make him jittery. He feels like he’s under a microscope of the idling guests, his mom with her absurdly green garden hat she insisted on wearing, his two older sisters chatting conspiratorially in the front row.

“Ghost says he’s got a jeep with half a tank of petrol in the car park if you need an escape route.” Soap mutters as he leans over, noticing Gaz’s bouncing foot.

Gaz frowns severely at his friend, and there’s only a mild sense of guilt in the Scot’s eyes, hidden by mirth.

“That’s not funny.” Gaz forces himself to say sternly, but his best friend can tell how his smile is infectious, and even as he mumbles a ‘Aye, sorry, sorry’ he’s containing a grin all the while.

“Mind your manners, Soap.” Price says from Johnny’s other side, and the reprimand has the Scot straightening on instinct, hands held behind his back with a small clearing of his throat. Then Price slides his eyes over to his protégé, a brief smile of amusement tugging his lips as Gaz’s vaguely worried expression, but saying nothing.

There’s music then, and it takes a moment for the crowd to rise. The throng of people briefly blocks Gaz’s sight, and he feels Soap likewise stretch beside him to catch a glimpse of the bride walking down the path towards the altar. There’s a flash of white for a moment, and Gaz’s heart leaps up into his throat before at last his eyes land on you.

You’re beautiful.

Gaz has seen many things in his lifetime, both violent and radiant, but nothing compares to the sight of you in your dress, holding a bouquet of English roses, eyes welling with emotion as you meet his gaze.

It summons such a sudden severe wash of desperate affection and tenderness that Gaz has to force himself to just breathe. His chest feels suddenly tight, the words he can’t wait to say to you threatening to bubble up prematurely at the vision of his fiancé walking towards him, one step at a time, ready to spend the rest of your life with him.

Fuck it, he’s going to cry after all.

Soap seems to notice, and there’s a little nudge in his side as the Scot tries to steady him from his wobbling lip. “Steady, mate.”

Gaz pays him not attention, because as you finally reach the altar and hand off your flowers, Gaz reaches his hands for you and feels emotion roll warmly down his cheeks. It seems to surprise you, and in turn your own gaze grows watery. You smile as you reach a hand up to cup his face, and Gaz can’t tell if it’s a sob or a laugh that forces its way up your throat.

“You’re crying.” You mutter, soft so only he can hear.

“You’re crying.” Gaz chokes back with a grin, seeing tears bead in the corner of your eyes. He doesn’t wipe his tears, doesn’t want to draw attention to it, so it’s your thumb that smears it away in a gentle touch.

“Fuck.” Gaz gasps softly for a moment, forgetting himself, and he can hear Price make a sound of disapproval at his language in front of the altar. Gaz pays him no attention. There’s no one else in the world right now other than the two of you, and as he turns to press a kiss into your palm, his voice is filled to the brim with overwhelming emotion.

“I can’t wait to marry you.”

#Gaz x reader #gaz x female reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x you #gaz fest #gaz fest drabbles #This is so tooth rottingly fluffy my god

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