#and then he’s all chummy with him while he’s home it’s so random

[ominoose]

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫-𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞

Summary: Random drabble's about Steven Grant meeting other Oscar Isaac characters. No Marc or Jake co-concious, only referenced. Characters: Basil Stitt, Leto Atreides, Poe Dameron A/N: This randomly hit me and I wanted to write it because it was funny. Used a spinny wheel for it. Also idk if BB-8 can do that but now he can.

London was it's usual muggy, busy self as Steven ran down the street, hoping to catch the bus to work. It had been hard enough to get a job after the Museum Incident, but maintaining a position was proving to be a much harder endeavor between his abnormal sleeping patterns and head mates.

"Oi! Wait, please!" Steven was within touching distance just as the bus sped off, and at the lack of anything to rest his weight on or break his fall, the man found himself tumbling face first into traffic.

☽ 𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐭 (Lightningface)

+ When Steven first wakes up in the apartment, his first thought is that he's woken up in a bomb site. The apartment is a mess, furniture and clothes strewn everywhere haphazardly. He's momentarily glad Marc isn't replying in his head, knowing the American would have an aneurysm over the state of the place.

+ Basil is the one to find Steven, jumping up from his spot on the couch and staring at him like he's an alien. The first thought in his mind is that Ricky the Monkey did some crazy magic and brought a clone to replace him. Poor Steven barely has a chance to process the situation before he's trying to calm his scarred, other American look alike down and explain his situation. Nothing manages to convince Basil there isn't some magic going on here, but he stops viewing Steven as an evil replacement.

+ After the initial shock and awkward introductions, they manage to sit down and chat for a few minutes. Basil shares the story of the lightning strike, insisting that its imbued him with magical powers. Steven, bless his heart, immediately believes this and boasts about his own moon powers too.

"You know, I've always wanted to try jumping off the roof and flying, have you done that?"

"Oh no, my mate Marc usually handles that, but maybe we can practice together? Have you got a suit as well?"

"Yeah, it's this paper bag and bed sheet I fixed up myself! C'mon, I have a stool on the balcony-"

"Wait, hang about.... Actually, mate, on second thoughts, lets not."

+ Steven ends up convincing Basil to properly fix his apartment, not just brush away the broken shards and dust. So that's what they do for a while, busying themselves as they theorize on how to get Steven back home with only a handful of brain cells between them. Basil listens with surprising intensity when Steven ends up branching off into Egyptology tangents, and likewise Steven nods along when Basil brings up all the documentaries he'd watched recently. In the end, the apartment does end up in much better shape, and the pair become quite chummy.

"Damn. Thanks for the help... Maybe I did overreact a bit."

"Yeah, it's no problem bruvs, it happens. Surprised the doctors didn't give you anymore meds, though I suppose over here its not like the NHS."

"Oh, no I didn't go to the hospital."

"...You wot?!"

𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 (Dune)

+ Coming to on hot, sandy slabs is enough of a trigger point to Steven Grant as they come. Coming to on hot, sandy slabs with weird astronauts in suits pointing space guns at him goes beyond frighting and circles back into 'Shit yourself' territory. Thankfully they seem to speak English. Unfortunately, his high pitched screams and babbling British noises don't make sense to them while they peer down their guns at him with confusion. It isn't until a booming voice draws everyone's attention that Steven gets a chance to breath.

+ Said breath is swiftly knocked back out of Stevens lungs when a wiser, nobler and older version of him walks into the room, commanding the attention of every single space soldier in the room. The man stares down at him as he lays huddled on the ground, curled into himself, and quirks a single well groomed eyebrow at him.

"I am Duke Leto of House Atreides. You have penetrated your way into my home. Who are you?"

"I-I-I'm S-Steven Grant. Of the... Giftshop."

The Duke continues his stony stare at Steven for a few seconds longer before holding out a calloused hand.

"Well Steven of the Giftshop, I think we both have many questions for one another, and hopefully some answers."

+ When Steven finally gets over being starstruck at the dignified, royal version of himself, and when Leto makes the accidental mistake of mentioning that they're billions of years in the future on another planet, Steven freaks out, having a 10 minute long panic attack. When that's over he geeks out instead, asking a million questions about technology, using apologies as commas and full stops.

"Do people still know about Khonshu in this era?!"

"I'm afraid I am not familiar with that name."

"Lucky sod."

+ Leto thinks the strange, weird sounding clone of himself is a schizophrenic long lost cousin, but at lease he isn't trying to kill him over a title. It's not as common in Arrakis, or the general noble courts, to find someone as earnest, honest and willing to learn as Steven seems to be, which earns him a surprising amount of respect from the Duke.

𝐏𝐨𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧 (Star Wars)

+ Waking up in a space ship that's doing somersaults mid-battle while dodging and weaving around beams trying to explode it out of the sky was almost as stressful as waking up on a London bus at 8am. Commendably, Steven didn't scream or cry, but simply had a silent panic attack until a rolling white and orange ball started beeping at him, or rather the ridiculously handsome version of him currently flying the plane.

"Who the hell are you and how did you get on my cruiser?!"

"Bloody hell, not another handsome American me!"

"What?! BB-8, check for a concussion!"

+ After being given a water bottle by the polite little droid, Steven finally managed to calm himself down by the time the ship touch down and the pilot in matching droid colours sprang before him, launching question after question. When he clocked Stevens face, he was speechless, brows slowly knitting over his eyes as he tried to make sense of what was in front of him. Mid stare-down BB-8 nicked the Brits skin, running a quick diagnostic test and beeping the results out to the pilot who's eyebrows swiftly un-knitted at the noises.

+ Taking advantage of the silence, Steven tries to explain himself and his situation, insisting he comes in peace and simply wanted to get home before Donna got another excuse to give him the sack. The pilot finally introduced himself as Poe, the best pilot in the resistance at that, and with a sigh he promised to try and figure out how to get Steven back to whatever galaxy London was from.

+ Poe tries to explain the resistance and the empire to Steven, who in turn compares it to Ammits cult and jointly rants about those who take choice and freedom from the innocent. Poe is happy enough that his weird blood ancestor is with the resistance, even if he does constantly regard him with a quirked eyebrow, wondering how in the universe he managed to evolve from this walking concussion. For a second time Poe is rendered silent as Steven mentions being Moonknight.

"Oh yeah, I've done that too, at least those Jedi blokes doesn't send their jackals after you though!"

"You've... fought? In battle?"

"Course, yeah. Fought off giant gods back to the underworld, stopped the day of reckoning as the souls of the living were flooding the underworld. It was just the other day actually."

"...You killed god?!"

+ Steven absolutely adores BB-8 and Leia, a feeling the bot and all of the resistance seem to happily return, much to the dismay of Poe. Steven's quite flustered from all the attention and questions, leaving Poe to drag him away in a huff, claiming they need to get back to figuring out how to send him home. It feels like a babysitting gig more than anything, but deep down it strokes Poe's ego when Steven ooh's and ahh's at all his resistance tales.

[crowscallthecrows]

Spoilers for all of the Public School Arc

Rewatching it again (cause what else do I do) and found some things I thought were worth discussing cause maybe I'm just slow and need an outside perspective:

So sebastian revealed that undertaker was the one that orchestrated everything as the headmaster from the time Redmond called him up, as payment for using their services. I'm assuming that undertaker was the one that made the order to send Derrick to purple house (unless he just sat back and let prefects deal with the school image themselves). But why the heck was that order made in the first place?? It just seemed like such a random fact that was constantly reiterated through the arc

I'm assuming again that it was because purple house calls way less attention from students (judging from the outward homeless appearance of the house itself and stoning other students away💀) and from outsiders (like how Redmond and red house in general is always being surrounded by women) therefore giving them way more time before other students realize that hey, we haven't actually seen those 5 students in a while.

And the way your telling me the teachers didn't say JACK about multiple students being missing in class for months at a time?? Even sebastian mentions this, though it's only about Derrick. Either the staff really hates derrick and his gang cause they knew they were assholes or just didn't care or notice (Edit: i realized mcmillian mentioned that it was common for purple house people to drop out. I'm assuming that's just what the staff thought).Which says a lot about the school the prefects were so stubborn on protecting 💀

I present to you another reason that's plausible: an excuse for derrick to step down as fag so Redmond could find a replacement. Can't have a dead body serve you tea. Though that doesn't explain sending the other boys there as well.

I was SO convinced that the burning of purple house would have something to do with derrick's body being hidden somewhere there when I first saw it.

It was a cool scene and all but the hell was violet freaking out for?? Stopping his other houses to stop his house from....burning seems a little dramatic for it just to mean nothing in the end.

Sure you can say it was the rivalry between the houses and all that, but unlike cheslock (who despite everything he says, seems to be pretty chummy with ol edward there) who actively does things that show he has at least a LITTLE problem with other houses (mentioning the rock throwing twice in a post), violet doesn't seem to...have that much of a problem with them. He doesn't strike me as a person who wastes his energy on hating needlessly.

My point is if he can commit murder with one student from each house, there should be no reason for him to be so mad that they want to help him. Which is why I thought he was hiding something.

Only for it to mean NOTHING IN THE END the fuck???

What exactly were the p4 planning on doing if undertaker was successful in making derrick and the others functioning members of society? Sending them back home? With no explanation on the MASSIVE scars going round their head?

How the hell were they gonna deal with that. Give them to Maurice for lessons on concealer?

And I'm correct me if I'm wrong but don't bizarre dolls have a really bad smell to them?? Why doesn't agares have one

Answering my own question, I guess this just sums up to poor planning on Redmond's part, since he's never seen a bizarre doll for himself before.

Am I being dumb?? Are these plot holes or are there actual reasons for these decisions. Maybe Yana was just filling up pages with random events to help lead up to the midnight tea party?

[nightcall99]

Dream from 27.9.23

I was at work but also I'm at school. I needed to source some practice exam papers because my exams are coming up and I'm feeling unprepared and getting a bit panicky about it. I'd only done a few practice ones at this point, and I figured I really need to start hunkering down and getting serious since they're so soon. I was also nervous because it's an oral exam.

IT was here. I missed him, it was really good to see him. I hadn't seen him in a long time. I asked him if he could help me and he was happy to. He showed me an old blog of his that he had written back when he was a trainee like I am now. This was like 10 years ago when we used to work together, back when he was still living in Australia He had put all the relevant practice exam papers on this blog, as well as myriad of other helpful resources. I was quite surprised with the existence of this blog and with the way it was set up, it occurred to me that I had never appreciated how creative he is. He also had videos up of of nature, 'slow TV' style, where there is extended footage of the foliage of bushes or trees, just swirling around in the wind. Then the memory comes back to me, of how he used to set his phone down at random moments and just randomly let it record for ages (I never saw this IRL).

It appears I'm in some kind of room, a computer lab. SM is here. I'm trying to make him jealous by being extra chummy with IT. I was getting really close, my body pressed up against him. I hope SM saw it. It's really pathetic but I want his attention on me. Then SM takes command of the room and starts giving everyone instructions to send a special kind of mass email. I’m not paying attention to what he's saying on purpose and I interject quite rudely, excuse me, but what is this for? He's teaching us some computer command on the overhead screen which will allow for us to send each other our phone numbers without the need for multiple-handling. We all seem to know each other but at the same time, not really. Then I say, well I'm not doing that so guess you guys won't have my phone number. Is it because I don't have one?

I sit next to AL and ask her if she can send me her exam preparation resources via email. I ask her really politely since it's tense between us now. So it seems I do have an email at least, maybe I just didn't care to have everyone's phone numbers. She’s cold to me in reply, says, sure I’ll send it, and takes out her phone to forward some things to me.

Later on, it's time to go home. I'm walking out of the school grounds and I know that SM is trailing behind me, that he can see me. I'm still trying to make him jealous. I run up ahead to IT and am very playful with him. We run up on hill and start playing like school children. I can see that SM walks past and his girlfriend appears out of the corner of my eye, presumably to meet him at the school gates. I can see both of their backs as they are walking away. I zone in on her back specifically and I can feel nothing coming from her, she has no energy. Well, neither of them do.

While I'm at the top of the hill with IT, some lady appears who is a customer that I'd served recently. I feel like I have to go and help my co-workers. I'm not at work but also I am.

I’m at work. The lady, the same one who I saw at school, comes for her regular Humira pen and also 3 boxes of free pen needles. She’s a bit odd and has showed up in my dreams before but writing this now I have no recollection of her face or anything at all. She's taking a while at the counter and is as usual, a bit of a handful to deal with. She's a nice lady and means well though. When I'm handing out her medication to her (which is 4 boxes in total), I start to panic that I had accidentally given her an extra box of medicine in place of a pack of needles since they both come in very similar looking red boxes. The medicine is really expensive, so it'd be really bad for our inventory if I made a mistake. I try to intercept her as she is walking to the front counter to pay. I check her bag, I don't think anything is amiss.

Then I'm kind of chilling out in my own mind and come to the sudden realisation that I've already completed my exams. I had lost my registration a long time ago over something really stupid. Apparently the scenario is that I had written an article or strongly worded email that came across like I would endanger a child's life and somehow the board got wind of it and they ousted me. But I re-did my exams and got my license again about 5 years ago, so why would I have to do it all again? Then it really hits home now.... I really don't have to do it! I just remembered the truth. Wow. I don't need to panic about these exams. I don't have to do it. I'm relieved. Thank god, I didn't really want to go through that. I could have, it'd have been fine but it would have meant a lot of needless hardship.

[greekmythcomix]

Oh my god this is such a mess:

- Irus the other beggar and the fight is book 18 - all good

- But then he’s skipped the bit where Penelope comes down, veiled, then basically extorts gifts from suitors before having a private chat with Tele and then leaving, with Ody-in-disguise being all ‘that’s my girl’. And then Ody-in-disguise offers to keep the fire going so the maids can have a rest and Melantho (bad maid) jeers at him. Then Eurymachus pretends he’d like to hire Ody-the-beggar but it’s actually an insult and Ody is rude back and Telemachus diffuses the situation and sends the suitors home for the night. Like, a WHOLE BOOK IS MISSING.

- Now it’s Book 19: Odysseus is meant to tell Telemachus to put the weapons away once the suitors have left for the evening? Not while they’re all still getting drunk?

- Odysseus now goes into different room to be washed by Eurycleia, up to Oenelope’s chambers? This seems to he can have Eurycleia tell the analepsis about the scar and more, and she and Odysseus are all chummy and cute. The scar moment is meant to happen in front of Penelope, who Athene makes just happen to be looking away at that moment when Eurycleia notices the scar and tried to tell her mistress. This happens AFTER Ody-the-beggar’s been interviewed by Penelope, and he grabs Eurycleia’a throat to stop her telling Penelope - not his finest moment.

- Penelope is meant to be by the fire in her good chair while the maids, her chaperones, tidy up after the suitors - she and some random beggar would not be left alone in a room! AND Melantho is meant to shout abuse at Odysseus-in-disguise AGAIN so Odysseus can reply telling her xenia is bad and Penelope can also tell off her maid and thus show Odysseus how good at xenia and loyal to him she is.

- Totally ruined Odysseus and Penelope’s first (dramatic-irony-ridden) meeting and conversation. Handy list of the main suitors though.

- Kept in Telemachus’ lucky sneeze on the situation - but from Book 17!)l

- Odysseus now gives Penelope the idea for the bow competition (it’s HER IDEA dammit)

- Also skipped the bit where Penelope tells the beggar-Odysseus about how she spun a ‘web of deceit’ - her clever ploy to put off the suitors asking her to marry him.

I’ve been making infographics showing the differences between EPIC the Musical and its source material, The Odyssey.

I did not expect to need to do the same thing for Stephen Fry’s ‘Odyssey’.

[loptrcoptr]

I just watched lethal weapon for the first time and I am so severely underwhelmed

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 6

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector

Summary: You and Marc grow closer, but it’s a little more complicated than that. Or alternatively: Marc refuses to let dead fish lie.

Word Count: 7,800

Series Masterlist | Astroboot's Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss' Masterlist

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Autumn is right around the corner for London. With it, the leaves are starting to turn, specks of bright orange and canary yellow dotted along the sidewalk. The old drab stone buildings in the city are washed in a pink amber from the morning sun. Suddenly every street, nook and cranny of the city is transformed into a gorgeous postcard for you to enjoy as you walk into your office in the mornings, sipping burning tea from your travel mug. 

It’s a season of cosiness. The autumn sun eases off mercifully, meaning no more unbearable heat waves. The smell of hot melted rubbish that permeates the summer months dissipates. Even the Thames River doesn’t look quite as mucky when the reflection of evening sunsets bounces off its ordinarily grimy grey surface. 

Best of all, the tourists start to thin out, no longer blocking every tube entrance while trying to figure out if it’s the Central line or Bakerloo line that will take them to Big Ben (neither will, of course). 

With the city deserted of tourists, there are fewer visitors at the museum and barely any people in the gift shop, all of which means more free time for Steven. No matter how much Donna might want to lock him up in the storeroom and be done with him, there’s only so much inventory work to be done when the museum is decreasing its stock of historically inaccurate kitschy trinkets for the season. 

It also means that by the time the working day ends for you, Steven will usually already be downstairs waiting for you at the reception in your office building. 

He and Susan have gotten quite chummy now that she no longer thinks he’s some random vagrant. More often than not, he’ll be there, bent over the reception desk as she shows him the latest photo of her grandchildren or shares cooking tips (which never quite seem to stick) as you exit the lift. Failing that, you’ll find him leaning against the wall, worn messenger bag slung across his shoulder, head lolling to the side trying to catch a few opportune minutes of sleep as he waits for you to walk home together. 

Watching his eyes light up when he looks up and catches sight of you never gets old. Nor does the way that Steven slips his hand into yours as you walk to the tube station. 

Weekday evenings are spent at his, simply for the unbeatable convenience of the central location. Steven’s flat is in zone 1 of London, just a quick hop away by tube versus the fifty minute commute to yours, practically in the outer rims of the galaxy out in zone 4. The close proximity means you have more time with each other in the evenings, and you often spend it heating up easy-to-cook meals (for Steven’s benefit) or finding new Attenborough-narrated documentaries to watch. 

But your favourite part of the evening is cuddling up in bed while he reads to you wearing his ridiculously outdated and thick-rimmed librarian glasses. It’s a look which, for some reason even you cannot fathom, you find completely irresistible, and you inevitably wind up climbing into Steven’s lap, book discarded somewhere on the floor as you show him just how irresistible you find him. 

Then there is the other half of your Autumn days: the mornings you spend with Marc. 

Those days start with you waking to an empty bed and the gentle white noise of yesterday’s dishes being taken care of in the kitchen. That’s how you know Marc is there before you even open your eyes to find your clothes neatly folded beside you. It used to make your stomach clench with unease, but that’s no longer the case.

To say that you and Marc are besties is a bit of an overstatement. Even "friends" would be a stretch, but you've definitely grown more comfortable with each other over time. 

Stirring awake to the sound of Marc pottering around has become another piece of your life. As has having breakfast together across the kitchen counter. 

Breakfasts that Marc cooks for you. 

In the early days, his efforts had been commendable but hardly first class (bless his cotton socks). But you’d seen the soggy eggs and limp sausages as the peace offering they were, and you were only too happy to accept the proffered olive branch.

The first time he’d made you tea had tested that resolve. He’d popped it in the microwave, and it came out a lukewarm, watered down, milky mess. You'd struggled to keep a smile on your face as you choked it down, until, by the last few sips, it felt like it had slipped into something closer to a Wallace and Grommit style grimace. He must’ve picked up on your not-so-subtle struggle, because the next cup of tea had been a bit better, and so had the next. A steady improvement until he was serving you a perfectly prepared cuppa every morning.

It’s become your ritual now. You’ll sip the tea he prepares for you each morning he’s there, watching over the brim of your cup as he prepares his own cup of coffee, then plates up your breakfast and it’s... nice. 

As endearing as Steven’s exuberant culinary efforts are, you secretly prefer Marc’s cooking to your boyfriend’s (perpetually burnt) marmite toast. There’s no risk of accidental arson for one. And, like the tea he makes for you, Marc’s food seems to get marginally better every time you eat it. The omelettes have gotten fluffier, the sausages crispier. Whether your palette is being won over by your increasing comfort around him, or it’s an actual improvement in technique, you don’t know, but his repertoire has expanded as well.

Marc now has a regimented rotation of breakfast dishes for the weekdays. You’ve memorised the order to the point that it’s become your internal calendar. You begin to look forward to waking up at Steven’s on Mondays, because Monday is French toast day. 

It’s strangely domestic. 

Marc cooks with mechanical precision, movements sparse and controlled, in comparison to Steven’s wild chaos. He’ll clean up after himself right away as well, even going so far as to wipe the crumbs off the counter before sitting down with a plate of his own. Because that’s another thing you’ve learned about Marc: absolute neat freak. Whereas Steven… not so much. In fact, you’d say your boyfriend thrives on the messy chaos. He seems to feel at home ensconced in piles and piles of books like it’s his own personal cocoon of safety. 

To Marc though, the mess is an eyesore. You can almost see the thick veins in his neck protruding in irritation whenever his eyes roam the cluttered space. Every nerve in him screaming as he fights his A-type instincts to make drastic cleaning efforts lest Steven become suspicious that someone else (or at least some kind of friendly cleaning poltergeist) has been in his flat. 

Every morning you spend together, Marc gets more verbal in his disdain for the mess. It’s hard not to laugh at some of the comments he makes because he sounds more like a cantankerous 70-year-old than the man in his prime years that stands before you. 

“You should tell Steven you hate the mess. He’d clean it for you, you know.” 

So Marc’s said, and more than once. It’s a running theme, and the wry comments make you snort into your tea with laughter every time.

“You could always tell him yourself, you know,” you like to rejoin, mimicking his delivery.

“Funny. Hilarious,�� Marc will shoot back flatly, rolling his eyes at you as he wipes the counter clean. But for all his sarcasm, one corner of his mouth remains tipped up in an almost-smile.

You’re still not quite friends, but you wouldn’t say that you’re far from it. 

It’s Sunday. You know it must be from the warm, lightly sweet smell of pancakes in the room and the gentle sound of butter sizzling in the frying pan. Marc makes pancakes with maple syrup on Sundays. 

Sitting up in bed, your eyes follow the sounds to see Marc standing before the stove. Bundling the quilt up around you, you make sure your naked torso is completely covered before gathering your neatly folded clothes from next to you on the bed and heading to the loo to get dressed. When you come out, your cuppa is sitting piping hot on the kitchen counter, steam gently rising as it waits for you. 

Marc’s just reaching up to grab the ground coffee from the cupboard, and it occurs to you that this is an opportunity to repay the favour. 

“I can make it for you,” you chime in.

He freezes and shoots you a startled look, staring like a deer in the headlights for a moment before he sets the coffee grounds down on the counter and retreats to the side, making space for you to slide in between him and the coffee maker.

Stepping up to the counter and unravelling the paper bag of ground beans, you realise that you’re not sure you remember how to do this. You’re not much of a coffee aficionado, so it’s been ages since you made coffee from scratch, but with Marc standing behind you, you can’t exactly pull up your phone and google instructions. You’ll just have to improvise as best as you can.

From your observations, Marc takes his coffee black and strong. So adding one spoon of grounds for each ounce of water Marc’s added to the coffee maker should be enough… right? Grabbing the spoon, you sneak a glance at Marc as you start to measure it out, but he’s watching you stone-faced. If you’re doing anything wrong (or right for that matter), his facial expression isn’t giving you any hints. 

After counting out the rest of the heaping scoops—plus one more for the pot—into the filter, you close the lid and turn the machine on. Watching anxiously as the pure black substance begins to drip down into the glass carafe. Tapping your fingers, you wait drop by drop until the machine is finally done squeezing out the very last of your efforts, and then grab a mug. 

As soon as you pour, you know something isn’t right. It smells off—acrid—to your nose, and there’s some sort of sediment at the bottom of the pot that looks like dirty sand. 

You stare at the noxious substance in the mug in dismay. 

Clearly you’ve made an error somewhere, because this doesn’t look safe for human consumption. From the way it smells, it might very well be poisonous. Regretfully, you step over to the sink with the pot and mug, resigned to pouring the whole sorry mess down the drain, but before you can do so, Marc intercepts you. 

He wraps his fingers around the handle of the mug and takes it from you without so much as a word. Then he raises it to his mouth, and you’re so surprised by it that you don’t even have the time to warn him of the Chernobyl situation happening inside that mug before he tips it up and takes a sip. And swallows.

There’s no reaction beyond a brief nod and a quiet “thanks.” 

You watch in disbelief as he continues to drink from the mug straight-faced. How long would it take for food poisoning to take, minutes, hours? Should you try to convince him to go to the hospital to get his stomach pumped? 

“Breakfast is going to get cold,” he tells you as he sets down the breakfast he’s already plated up for you on the kitchen counter and gestures for you to sit. 

Drawing your eyes away from the coffee mug in Marc’s hand, you take in the food in front of you. 

The pancakes look glorious, three of them piled on top of each other to make a fluffy stack several inches thick and glistening with maple syrup. You eagerly stab your fork into them and shove a large chunk into your mouth letting the perfect mix of sweet savouriness melt on your tongue. 

“This is so good,” you moan, eyes nearly rolling back in your head. You're still chewing open-mouthed as you compliment him, refusing to stop scarfing down this delicious food. (Your grade school teacher would be appalled at your table manners.) From the corner of your eye, you can see the way Marc’s lips tilt, not quite a smile, but the hint of one. 

“God, how do these pancakes keep getting better every time. Is this a Ratatouille situation?”

Marc lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Never seen it.”

“The one with the rat chef? He hides in his human friend’s hat and tugs his hair to marionette him to cook?”

“That sounds unsanitary,” Marc remarks, not answering your question, then makes a show of running a hand through his thick curls and tugging them between his fingers, deadpanning “No rats.”

He turns back to his food, but you’re left staring, struggling with the sense-memory of running your own hands through those soft locks while Steven buried his face between your legs and made you see stars.

You shake your head and will the intrusive thought away, quickly scooping up another bite of pancake. Doing your best to focus on the near heavenly taste and texture, you shovel it into your mouth as fast as you can chew. 

Marc eats in a much more dignified manner, cutting his stack of pancakes into neat squares. He looks up occasionally to watch you massacre yours with wry amusement. You continue to eat and neither of you say much, only the tiny clang of your cutlery scraping against the plate sounding out. 

Picking up the mug next to him, Marc finished off the coffee inside down to the last drop. Either the man has a terrible taste in coffee, or your efforts weren’t that bad after all. 

“It might take longer this time,” Marc says. For once, he is the one to break up the silence instead of you. 

You look up from your plate, mouth crammed full of syrup-soaked pancake, which you have to chew furiously before you’re able to swallow and speak again. 

“Oh, all right.” You don’t have to ask to know he’s talking about leaving again. “How long will you be gone? Have you called in sick to work for Steven so he doesn’t get into trouble?”

Marc hums an affirmative, which you assume is an answer to the second question, not the first. 

“Marc,” you begin again, fully intending on repeating yourself like a parrot until he gives you an answer, “How long will you be gone ?” 

“Don’t know yet. Might be a few days. Probably a few weeks.” 

That’s not too bad then. You’ll miss Steven, of course. And you make an unenthusiastic mental note to pick up more granola from Sainsburys for breakfast while they’re gone—Marc’s food has spoiled you. 

“What do you do on these trips anyway? Is it for work?”

“Something like that.” 

“How do you not know how long you’ll be out of town then? What kind of company doesn’t give you an itinerary?”

He merely shrugs, and you know you’ll get nothing more down that line of questioning. 

You look out over the flat as you finish up the last of the pancake on your plate, and your eyes land on Gus swimming away in his gigantic fish tank by himself. 

“Do you want me to pop ‘round and feed Gus?”

Marc shakes his head, already taking away your plate, cleaning up after you. “No, I got it handled.” 

Of course he’d turn you down. It’s no big surprise. Knowing Marc, he doesn't want you in Steven’s flat unsupervised for fear you’ll get funny ideas or start prying into his and Steven’s things. You imagine that’s why he’s always here, busying himself with something or the other in the flat when you wake up with him instead of Steven. The thought stings a bit, though you can't quite put your finger on why.

Collecting your things, you head towards the door, taking one last glance at Gus’ fish tank before you go. “Don’t forget to feed him.” 

Marc turns towards you, the corner of his lips quirking up, “I won’t.” 

It’s another Thursday night. 

Steven and Marc have been gone for a fortnight, and you’re tucked up on the sofa with a cosy blanket and some wine watching The Great British Bake Off on the BBC. Paul Hollywood is in the middle of critiquing a subpar cranberry tart when you get the usual head’s up text from Marc: 

Marc Safe. Back tomorrow.

Loquacious as always, but you've got his number now. Marc's not nearly so taciturn as his initial attitude would imply.

Maybe it’s the buzz from the two fishbowl-sized glasses of wine you’ve had (your cheeks already feel a little warmer the way they do when you’re tipsy). Maybe it’s because nowadays you’re comfortable enough with Marc that expressing curiosity no longer feels like you’re wading into something dangerous. Or maybe you’re just lonely and want to keep the connection going a few minutes longer. 

Whatever the reason, you decide to text him back. 

You So what exactly is it that you do while you’re away?

Marc I can’t tell you. 

You Or what? You’ll have to kill me, Mr Bond? 

You grin at your own joke, feeling quite clever and very chuffed with yourself. When several moments tick by with no response, you seize the moment to continue teasing him, messaging him again (and again) with a growing sort of giddiness.

You Marc…  Marc!  Surely you’re joking  You’re not! You can’t be!!  Get back here, Marc!!  Please tell me you are not actually a secret agent. 

Marc I’m not a secret agent.

Ha!  You knew it was only a matter of time before he took the bait! You chortle gleefully to yourself as your fingers fly over your phone screen, spelling out the obvious response.

You That sounds like something a secret agent would say 

Marc It’s a little more complicated than that. 

You That’s not a no... 

Marc Good night. 

You shake your head at his non answer and sign off, still chuckling quietly to yourself as you settle back onto the sofa to watch Paul Hollywood eat another slice of crumble rhubarb pie.

Glued to your sofa, you get through three episodes in a row, and barely manage to curb your envy of the man’s metabolism. How he’s managed to last so many seasons without seemingly gaining a pound is beyond you. When the third episode ends, a rerun of Top Gear comes on, and as much as you cannot stand Jeremy Clarkson, the sound of motors rumbling on the telly in your empty flat is soothing, and you let it stay on to keep you company as you clean up your dishes and wander back to the couch to check your email. 

Your doorbell buzzes, and you jump about half a foot at the sudden intrusion of sound. It continues loudly and without interruption, as if whoever was ringing at your door is determined to exhaust the buzzer into silence. You quickly scramble up and around the ottoman, trying to get to the door before one of your neighbours starts pounding on the wall. 

Putting your eye against the peephole, you’re greeted by a familiar sight. You’d recognize that sharp nose and floppy dark curls anywhere. Except, his stance is a bit too impatient, militant. 

Marc then, not Steven. 

Unlocking the door, you barely have a chance to say so much as hello. 

“I killed his fish,” he announces. 

“Wha– Gus?” 

“The stores are closed.” He rakes a frustrated hand through his hair, neatly combed waves coming apart into slightly messier curls that remind you of Steven. “I tried five pet shops on the way here. None of ‘em were open.” 

“So, wait. Your grand master plan is to find a lookalike fish, and then… what? Hope Steven won’t notice? That’s ridiculous, Marc. Steven’s not a five year old child. Just leave Gus where you found him.” 

Marc seems to consider that for a moment, jaw flexing as he stares off into space, but then he shakes his head. "Yeah, I can't do that. He'll be upset. I need to get him another one."

That gives you pause. As much of a sour old grouch as Marc usually is, every now and then, there are moments like this. Moments that hint at something softer and caring within. You catch glimpses of it in his misguided attempts to protect Steven’s happiness. You don’t agree with the way Marc chooses to do these things, but the intention is there all the same. The postcards from their mum that are really from him. His insistence on keeping his very existence a secret from Steven. Only Marc would resort to gaslighting as a form of affection. 

“Why didn’t you text me? I could’ve swung by and fed him.”

Marc’s eyes flicker, then he turns his face to the side, away from you. For a brief moment you think you see a line of bruising on the side of his neck, but in the dimly lit darkness of the hallway you can't tell if it's just a shadow or your eyes playing tricks on you. 

“Things got… complicated,” Marc says. 

You sigh, opening the door wide enough to make room for him to come in.

He doesn’t take the hint, remaining firmly planted in the hall, with no indication that he means to cross your threshold. 

It occurs to you that Steven’s spent quite a bit of time here, but Marc hasn’t been back to your flat since that first night he interrupted your Blue Planet marathon and rudely shoved his hand over your mouth. How far you’ve come. 

You stand back, even farther, gesturing him in, and Marc leans forward and peers hesitantly into your flat. Yet, instead of going inside, he takes a step back, and you really want to roll your eyes and just shove him inside already. It’s been raining all day, and it's cold in the hallway. Keeping the door ajar is letting out all the warmth, and your gas bills are already through the roof as it is. 

“I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know why I thought this was a good idea–” 

“Come inside, Marc,” you interrupt. 

Like a vampire being granted permission, Marc finally relents and follows you into your flat.  

Walking to the couch to retrieve your phone, you pick it up and pull up Google Maps. “So Amazing Fins down the street from my office opens at 11am on Fridays. Want me to meet you there on my lunch break?”

“No, I might not be able to stay awake that long. We need to get something now.” 

Stubborn as always. 

You grumble to yourself as you go back to poking at your phone. You don’t know why you’ve let this man into your house, much less why you’re letting him rope you into a futile mission of procuring a goldfish when all pet shops across the whole of London are closed. 

Yet somehow you find yourself texting every local friend in your contacts about the possibility of “borrowing a goldfish for a day or two” because there’s been a petmergency. 

“Not borrowing. We’re keeping it,” Marc says from behind you, but you pointedly ignore his unhelpful commentary. 

Now here’s the wonderful thing about London. You’re pretty sure that in any other city, a mad text like this, sent out late on a Thursday night, would be met with a slew of offended texts back like “get stuffed” or “are you on drugs?”—if it got any responses at all.  Instead there’s only a handful of those (and one asking if it’s code  for “sex stuff,” which you do not respond to).  

It’s truly only in London that you would get a reply from an old uni mate you haven’t seen for almost half a decade with a casual, no questions asked: 

Sam sure fam! how many u need?

Good old Sam. Sam was the friend you’d call at uni whenever your evening plans fell through, and he’d take you to this unlicensed club in the middle of Clapham or a secret party held in a closed down tube station. Apparently not much has changed. Sam’s still that lad—the one who’s never said no to anything in his life and always seems to have a contact or twelve for everything—so you don’t even raise an eyebrow when he tells you that he knows a bloke with a huge collection of fish in his cellar. 

Marc however, does raise an eyebrow. 

You tell him, as you’re putting on your coat, that you have a lead and are going over to Docklands to get a fish.  Before you even finish the sentence, his arms are already locked across his chest, and he’s wearing that pinched expression that you’ve learned by now means he’s unhappy. 

“How well do you know this guy?” he asks. 

“Well enough. I told you, he’s an old mate of mine from uni.” 

“It’s not safe,” he mutters under his breath. “Who keeps a bunch of fish in their basement and then just gives them away? You sure it’s not a trap?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Marc. Besides, what kind of person would come up with an evil master plan to lure women into their cellar with fish?” 

“A serial killer,” Marc answers with a straight face. 

You scoff as you wrap a thick scarf around your shoulders. It’s about all you can do to not laugh in his face, because Marc seems completely oblivious to the irony that he is the sketchiest bloke you know. “Are you serious right now?” 

Apparently he is, because his eyes narrow, demeanour as serious as ever, when he announces, “You’re not going alone. I’m coming with you.”

You hate the DLR. 

The above-ground railway is always so bloody slow compared to the tube, and it coils its way clumsily around office buildings and industrial estates like some discount Tory rollercoaster. This is what happens when you build public transport as an afterthought. If it wasn’t for the Thames river being in the way, you could probably get there faster simply by walking. 

On top of that, it’s crowded. It always is on weeknights, but tonight is worse than anything you’ve experienced before. You’re all packed in like sardines, and it isn’t until the third congregation of rowdy men enters your car and begins chanting football anthems that it occurs to you why: there was a football game tonight.  

In the crowd of sports enthusiasts, you’re unable to find a seat, nor can you reach any of poles or straphangers to steady yourself. The carriage sways over a bridge like a slithering snake, and between that, the wine from earlier, and the smell of rancid beer and drunk blokes sweating through their polo shirts, motion sickness kicks in with a fury.  

Oh fuck, you really don’t want to be sick all over the floor. 

You close your eyes tightly, breathing deeply through your nose. You’re distracted, not ready when the carriage lurches forward, and your footing fails. You start to tumble backwards, absolutely sure that you’re about to go arse over tits when you feel someone’s arm lock behind your waist. In an impressive display of strength, they arrest your fall, reeling you forward until you’re steady on your feet again. 

Opening your eyes, you look up to find Marc watching you, his mouth set in a worried frown. 

“You okay?” he asks, and you open your mouth to answer him, but the sudden countermotion of the carriage correcting its course slams you forward, and you collide with him, nose to chest. 

Blistering heat burns your cheeks, and you nod into his shirt. All of a sudden, your legs seem to have become gelatine, and you're pretty sure it’s not just from the motion sickness. 

It’s silly really. Your proximity to this man should not get you this flustered. You’ve done far more physically intimate acts than be pressed up against his fully clothed body, crammed around a sea of sweating strangers. 

You’re about to remove yourself, stutter out some polite apology to avoid any awkwardness between you. But his arm tightens around you, locking behind the small of your back to steady you again. Then he keeps it there. 

“It’s fine,” he says.  

You’ve never heard his voice like this,  pleasantly low and soft for your ears only. Even through the pandemonium of football fans arguing about who was really offside in the background, you hear it piercingly clear and your ears tingle. 

“Just hold onto me until we get there.” 

Your eyes linger on the side of his neck. There’s no sign of the dark bruises you thought you saw on him in your hallway earlier this evening. It must’ve been the trick of light. 

Marc tips his face until he can meet your eyes, and– Fuck, you’re staring. 

With a quick nod, you quietly murmur, “thanks,”  then duck your head, pressing your face further into his chest in the hopes that it will help to hide any physical signs of the burning sensation that is spreading across your face. 

The buzzing noise of the carriage fades away, and you can barely feel the unsteady sway or the stops and starts anymore as Marc continues to hold you steady. He smells like clean linens, and there's a hint of coffee that reminds you of sitting at the breakfast table with him on your mornings together. 

Inertia tugs at you as the train slows to stop again, and this time Marc gently taps you on the shoulder, pointing to the doors as they slide open. 

You look up to see the sign on the platform that reads, ‘Canning Town.’  It’s your stop.

Stepping back out of Marc’s arms and then out of the train into the much colder air on the platform, you can’t help the invading thought that it’s a shame your journey on the DLR wasn’t longer.  

As you leave the station, Marc stays stuck to your side and the two of you walk down the empty streets of the Dock area, shoulder to shoulder, until you reach the small residential area where Sam’s friend lives, part of an old rundown council estate. 

Sam and his friend are already standing outside, and he waves you in with a cheery smile. Before you’ve even reached the front door steps, he pulls you into a hug, and then leads you down to the cellar. Energetic as always, he's stopping every two steps to show you a cool exotic fish in one of the tanks lining the hall, the stairs and just about every spare inch of space while his friend enthusiastically regales you with the origin of each. 

Marc spends the whole time staring down Sam with suspicion. 

“Is he always so… intense?” Sam whispers over his shoulder to you. “Your boyfriend is more intimidating than I imagined.”

Your first instinct is to rebut with “he’s not my boyfriend,” but thankfully you catch yourself in time. Marc may not be your boyfriend, but Steven is, and Sam has seen your corny couple photos on Instagram.

How do you explain to an old friend that this is not your boyfriend but your boyfriend’s alter, particularly when your boyfriend doesn’t even know he has one? 

You turn to look at Marc, who is standing next to Sam’s friend. His lips are pressed together in concentration as he regards the goldfishes in the tank studiously. You overhear him asking if any of them have only one fin (they don’t), and you can’t help but smile. 

“He’s not as bad as he first seems,” you tell Sam. “It’s a bit of a secret, but he’s actually a big softie.” 

It’s after midnight by the time you get back to Steven’s flat, and you find yourself with a plastic bag in hand, scooping an unfortunately two-finned goldfish out into the large fish tank in a sad attempt at tricking your boyfriend into believing it’s his old goldfish. 

The imposter lands in the tank with a wet plop, and you and Marc stay standing in front of it, watching as he explores his new home. You’re shoulder to shoulder, hunched over so close to the glass that a patch of fog forms then dissipates with each exhale.

From where you are, if fake Gus doesn’t turn, he can pass for the original Gus. Marc took extraordinary care to make sure that the golden colouring was the same hue, that the marks were the same and even the fat plumpness of the two was as close to identical as possible. 

There’s something incredibly ironic about this. You’re standing next to a man physically identical to your boyfriend, while staring down a dupe goldfish that you’re both trying to pawn off as the original. It seems like some big metaphor that the universe is using to try to tell you something. Now if only you were clever enough to figure out what. 

Or perhaps, you think, watching fake Gus turn and flash you his superfluous fin, the cosmic universe has a really bizarre sense of humour. 

“Shit,” Marc curses, turning away to pace the room. His feet thud loudly against the wooden floor with each step, and you wonder how Steven doesn’t get more complaints from his neighbours than he already does. “He’s going to notice.”

“Well, why don’t you just manually remove one fin then?” 

Marc stares at you with a look of horror, the kind usually reserved for war criminals. “Rip his fin off?!”

"God, no. I'm not a barbarian. We'd use scissors.”  You hold up your index and middle finger, mimicking a scissor to show him. “Snip snip. The fish won't feel a thing." 

For a purported man of mystery, Mr. ‘my-line-of-work-is-dangerous’ seems appalled by the very notion of violence, his whole body shuddering in disgust. 

“Yeah, we’re not doing that.”

“It’s either that or hope Steven doesn’t notice.”

Marc’s teeth clamp down on his lower lip, worrying the flesh, and your heart skips a beat at the familiar sight. Those two are so unlike each other, but this little habit is problematically similar. 

“I’ll take my chances,” he murmurs, then approaches the tank again as if looking at it a third or fourth time will magically make the extra fin less noticeable. 

You follow suit, walking forward to stare at the imposter goldfish again as well. Despite the large size of the tank, the two of you are huddled closely together, the firm line of Marc’s shoulder pressing against yours. You don’t pull away, and the pleasantness of the touch lingers and spreads until the back of your neck is tingling. 

This is Marc, not Steven, but it’s like your body doesn’t know any better, a kaleidoscope of butterflies skittering through your veins at the innocent touch. 

Shifting your weight to your heels, you try to distract yourself from the inappropriate sensation. “Oh, um... By the way, why did you come to me for help?”

“You and the fish seemed close.” 

The statement stuns you. You don’t know why he would think that. What indication have you ever shown him that you and a goldfish missing a fin would be close? You cycle through your memory and the only thing that comes to mind is that one time months ago when Marc had thought you were leaving a post-it note to Gus. 

“You know I don’t actually write to Gus right?” 

He doesn’t reply, but there's a small teasing smile on his face and he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Oh. It’s a joke. Marc is joking. 

You can’t help but smile back at him, entranced by the difference that little bit of a smile makes. It feels like a rare treasure that no one but you has been privy to. God help you, he’s one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen. 

Steven is attractive in an adorable, puppyish sort of way, and quite fit actually, once you get past the too big clothes and nervous mannerisms. (Gorgeous once you have him all fucked out underneath you and he finally relaxes). Somehow, despite sharing the same body, Marc is cut from a different cloth. Confident and self-contained to Steven’s awkward flailing; overly serious where Steven is cheery. But when they smile? Both are breathtaking.

The smile doesn’t last long, but Marc’s face stays open and relaxed. He holds your gaze for a long moment before looking away, giving his full attention to the imposter fish. 

“You’re the only one I could think of to ask.” 

He says it so matter-of-factly that you miss the significance at first. 

The only one…

You’re the only one he has. 

You had thought, with all their differences in personality and mannerisms, that Steven and Marc were nothing alike. Simply considered Marc as an ill-tempered twin brother of sorts. But you see more clearly now. As different as they are in temperament, there are similarities too that go beyond the physical details. There is a loneliness there, etched into the strands of their very DNA and enforced by their unusual situation. Marc is no more able to live a whole and full life than Steven is. 

For all his lone wolf attitude, at the end of the day, a lone wolf is also just that… lonely. 

It’s all so stupid. If Marc wasn’t so stubborn and insistent on keeping his own existence separate from and unknown to Steven, then he’d have the only one person in this whole wide world that could possibly understand this loneliness beside him. 

You find yourself openly staring at him. This man who looks exactly like the man you love. Knows the same loneliness as the man you love. Physically, is the very same man that you love, and your body responds to him all the same. 

You don’t know when the two of you got quite this close. When your foreheads became inches from touching. So close that you can’t look away even if you tried. 

He’s not Steven, you remind yourself. But every line of his face is identical to Steven. Not Steven, but he smells like Steven. Not Steven, but every vein and fibre of your body is singing out in want of him all the same.

You already know what it’s like to kiss this man. Know intimately how soft and pliant those full lips feel against yours. It doesn’t help that your body craves the familiar touch. It wouldn’t take much, just a slight tilt of your head upwards, and you’d be there. 

His nose drags against yours until the tips of your noses brush up and it sends a shiver through you. He’s so close. Close enough that his eyelashes tickle against your cheekbones. Close enough that you can almost taste his lips, and God help you, you want to. 

His breath ghosts over your lips, a barely there touch, and you find yourself, despite all common sense, closing your eyes and leaning into it. Waiting for that perfect press of his mouth brushing against yours. 

It doesn’t come. 

Your eyes flutter open just in time to see Marc pull back, eyeing you warily, like you’re something dangerous. He takes a step back away from you, that ever present scowl firmly back in place, and that’s all it takes to break the spell. 

What the fuck are you doing!? 

“It’s late,” Marc murmurs, “You should go home. I’ll walk you down.” 

Your cheeks are suddenly on fire. Whether it’s want or embarrassment or pure shock, you don’t know. Possibly a combination of all three. You don’t know how long that moment lasts, but you stand there rooted to the spot, your eyes are barely able to meet Marc’s, and he seems intent on avoiding your gaze as well. 

Then finally, you’re able to swallow down the remains of your wounded pride. “Yeah, that... um... that sounds good.” 

Neither of you speak again as you quickly collect your things and follow Marc out the door and down the poorly lit corridor to the lift. The silence between you is deafening.

Mercifully the lift door opens almost immediately, but stepping into the enclosed space is not an improvement. Not even a square metre in total, metal on all sides around you with a gigantic mirror that, instead of creating the illusion that the space is larger, only serves as a reminder of how little space there is between you and Marc as you stare at the reflection.  

You don’t ever remember it feeling this claustrophobic during the countless times you’ve stood inside it with Steven. But the weight of your near-almost mistake weighs oppressively on you with each passing second, and the lift seems to be taking its sweet time making its way down through the floors. The silence between you is so potent, that you can hear the hum of the lift, can practically see the heavy weight of the cables running above the metal box you’re trapped inside of together. 

Your skin crawls inside your jumper like someone’s poured a jar of ants inside your collar. 

You can’t take the silence. 

But you don't know how to make it stop. Don’t know what to say to him. So you resort to the one conversational topic that all British people fall back on in the face of any awkward situation. 

“Uhm so, the weather is getting nippier now with Autumn coming on, isn’t it?”

The only response you get from Marc is a gruff sounding noise in the back of his throat, eyes fixed on his feet at the ground, brows scrunched tightly together.

It’s quite possibly the most effective conversation ender known to man, and it makes your stomach sink until you’re sure it must have descended through the floor of the lift to land somewhere wedged into the concrete floor of the basement. You resign yourself to silence after that, because you can’t bring yourself to try again. 

Five floors down has never felt this long. Aeons later, the elevator pings, announcing your arrival, and the stiff metal doors slide to the side to let you out. 

Shortly after, you make it outside, finally free from the confines of the tiny lift and the narrowness of the corridor, only to discover that at some point the humid air polluted by London congestion had betrayed you and tipped over into pouring rain. 

You can’t even walk out into the open street like this. Instead, you have to stay under the flimsy shelter of the rooftop above the entrance so you don’t get soaked, and the feeling of being trapped remains. Leaning out, you try to get a peek at the clouds to see if there’s any chance the rain is going to let off, but in the murky darkness of the night, there’s no way of telling. 

The rasp of a separating zipper cuts your concentration. You turn your head to your left to see Marc taking off his jacket. He walks towards you then settles it over your shoulders. 

“It’s raining. And cold,” he mutters in response to your questioning look. 

Nodding dumbly at him, you try to ignore the way the residual heat from his body still lingers in the lining of his jacket and how it is boiling your skin. Cold? Right now it feels like you’re being burned at the stake. 

You’re about to pull up Uber on your phone, but, as if he cannot wait to get rid of you, Marc steps out to the street and flags down an old fashioned black taxi that pulls up to the curb under a lonely streetlight. 

You step cautiously out into the rain, and Marc opens the door for you as you approach the taxi. Standing by the open door, you pause to look up into his face, half expecting him to look impatient, like he can’t wait for you to be gone. 

He doesn’t. Instead, there’s a pained expression that meets you there, and he can barely meet your eyes. He looks so unsure of himself that it almost breaks your heart. His shoulders are rounded in, slumped posture made all the more obvious as the rain plasters his unprotected shirt to his skin.

“Oh!” Grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, you start to slide it off to return it, but Marc shakes his head. His hands cover yours, trapping them and tugging the jacket back up around your shoulders until the collar is pulled securely up to your chin. 

“Keep it.” 

You stare up at him, momentarily distracted by the rogue curls starting to fall down over his face as the light from the streetlight glitters off stray droplets of water caught in his hair. Your breath catches in your chest, and you can’t move. You search his face, but his expression has turned inscrutable, and you’re not even sure why you’re still standing there. You feel like you’re waiting for something, but for what, you don’t know. 

Some sign from him, perhaps. Or for something to crack. 

“Where to, sweetheart?” the Croydon accent of the taxi driver cuts into the space between you, startling you. You jump slightly, sucking in a deep breath like you’re surfacing from underwater, and Marc’s hands fall away from yours. That feels wrong. 

Stepping back, you turn away from him, and that feels wrong too, like your shoes are weighed down with concrete as you step towards the taxi. Ducking your head, you climb in and give the driver your address. Before you’ve even had time to scoot properly into your seat, the door closes gently behind you. 

Looking up through the windowpane, Marc is still there. Fixed in place in the pool of light under the streetlamp right where you left him, watching you with a look you can’t decipher in his eyes. The sight of him makes your chest ache. 

You twist around as the taxi pulls away, peering through the back window so you can keep your eyes on him as he recedes into the misty city background. London’s never looked so dark and dismal as it does now, watching as the growing distance makes Marc look smaller and smaller until he is no longer visible to you.

And even then, you keep staring for a few minutes longer, as if he might somehow reappear. He doesn’t of course, and eventually you force yourself to turn back around and sink down into the seat. You’re still wrapped up in Marc’s jacket, and you snuggle in, pulling the collar up far enough that it covers the tip of your nose. The thick canvas fabric is coarse but worn soft with wear and washing and still almost uncomfortably warm. A faint scent lingers in the material, reminiscent of the way your pillow smells when you wake up after spending a night with Steven. 

The heat in your cheeks is scorching, but you tell yourself it’s just from being in the warm taxi after standing in the cold rain. That's all it is…

~ CONTINUE ~

A/N: This is one of my favourite chapters to date. When I first started Red Flags, I had two scenes in mind that I absolutely wanted to explore: one was Steven calling you after you'd been stood up and how I would absolutely still show up because have you seen him!??! He's gorgeous! The second was Marc asking you to help covering up the dead Gus-- and being appalled at the suggestion of snipping of the fin (come on Marc, you're a mercenary!! This is where you draw the line?) Thank you all for coming on this journey with me. I've never written anything this long before. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time out of their day to read this.

We all have busy lives and the fact that you would choose to take the time out of your day to sit down (or lie or stand) with me and read my writing gives me a lot of joy. Whether you're a lurker, a liker, reblogger, or a commenter, thank you so much for reading and I appreciate you all very much.

Dedications:

To @thirstworldproblemss whom I adore and love more than 🍆 & 🍤. I hit the fucking tumblr lottery with your friendship, and am so glad everyday that I jumped into your DM to strike up a conversation for funsies, and then made fun of you for your (amazingly-panty-meltingly-hot) milk-titty stories. Because look at where we are now, more than a year and a half later and all the fun I have with you daily. Writing this story with you has been such a great source of joy and comfort to me in an incredibly tumultuous. I'm so proud of this baby that we've created together, communist bugs bunny style. I love you the absolute m🐭st.

To @radiowallet and her sage advice and for being my sounding board on all things Marvel.

To @jazzelsaur and her micro ☕ without her amazing wealth of coffee knowledge I would be lost in this chapter. Her gorgeous avocado hair is a source of endless inspiration to me and she is my muse.

[ddarker-dreams]

That Sr lunch discussion except the conversation was actually interrupted SRs ex bc I live for drama

honestly that'd go beyond drama... it'd be escalating into a full force conflict.

as always, link to scarlet ribbons for anyone who comes across this and is ???

you'd think giorno would be the voice of reason here. the one to hold down the fort while all hell breaks loose. well, you'd be thinking wrong; the dio genes really start popping up. he becomes a smug little instigator. stirs the pot at every opportunity. that ex is going to know they are most definitely not welcome around these parts, especially if they strolled into libeccio and sought you out. may or may not turn a button of theirs into a mosquito. or a tick. whatever it is that’d make their day worse. you’ll be absolutely none the wiser, however, giorno covers his hidden motives with his charismatic smile. 

bucciarati is going to assume the burden of being mature. it’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it. he’s honestly more concerned over your feelings on the ordeal than establishing his machismo. he’ll quietly ask if you want him to intervene or allow matters to play out on their own, honoring whatever it is you decide. bruno is curious to know just what kind of person it is you’re romantically interested in... it’s useful information for his future endeavors. he can’t say he’s impressed with your taste thus far. but that’s okay, once he sweeps you off your feet, your taste will have improved tenfold. notices giorno turning one of their buttons into a mosquito and says absolutely nothing. 

fugo is more confused over what you saw in this random shmuck?? he's been trying to get in your good graces for years and this person somehow managed to do it? he bets they're not even half as smart as he is. smh. do they know how to do calculus in record time? probably not. you know who does? hint, the answer is him. he does. he’ll even show you and beam once you compliment his math prowess. he’s got a hair-trigger temper though. the second they enter a close enough radius to your person, he’ll be seeing red. he’s got enough competition with the others on the team (who he has dubbed the peanut gallery), he doesn’t need some shmuck strolling in and adding to his numbers. purple haze is more than content to turn them into a boiling pile of goop should it be necessary.

narancia is whipping out his switchblade in record time. gets the tough guy persona going, asking if they wanna “take a walk”, then glancing over to you to see if you thought his delivery was cool (you give a tentative thumbs up). it doesn’t matter if you were together for one month or one year, narancia gets freaked out by the thought of some stranger touching you. gross. no one other than him can do that. to say he’s envious is an understatement. he automatically assumes that the person is up to no good, even if you ended the relationship on decent terms and they’re just stopping by to say hi. postulates that they could be a stand user. you say they’re dressed too normal to be one. honestly, the entire experience ruins his day. he’ll probably be muttering under his breath and kicking rocks the entire walk home. 

cue the music. mista does this semi creepy song and dance where he slings an arm around them, acts real chummy, all so they can get a good view of the pistol hidden in his boot. he’s ready to duel for your honor. give him a time, a place, and he’ll be there. you need to gently explain to mista that they don’t need a bullet in their head, he can put the gun away. anytime now. preferably sooner than later because he’s making a bit of a scene. after the poor soul is sufficiently scared off, they can expect to be greeted by none other than guido mista, obscured by an alleyway’s shadow. their life flashes in front of their eyes, probably thinking this is the end for them. mista just quietly asks them what kind of pickup lines work best on you. 

abbacchio honestly has no interest in interacting with them. he thinks the fact they have to be in giorno’s presence for any length of time is punishment enough. if the poor soul tries to interact with abbacchio, to better understand the people you’re hanging around these days, all bets are off. abbacchio has a menacing death stare that radiates pure hatred. looks at him with the same disgust one would a spider in their shower, yet maintains his indifference. it’s a double-pronged attack. he’ll start belittling them to their face in ways that aren’t that apparent at first. the kind of talk that you wouldn’t realize until a few hours later. he gets his kicks in then goes back to shutting them out. 

[tsunderedoctor]

Best One Piece Yanderes

Donquixote Doflamingo

The man screams yandere in the show and he screams yandere in the fanon too. Literally a manipulative, isolating and eliminating yandere all in one. Would take his s/o and lock them up, make them only rely on him (because he’s so godly), and if that doesn’t work he has no problem killing them so no one else can have them. 

If s/o was feeling miserable or crying he would coo at them and offer them whatever they desired (just not freedom of course~). Best clothes, finest jewelry, you name it he gets it. Would also put them in his lap and snicker at how they are being a crybaby.

Would only allow the family to see s/o; but if s/o gets too much attention or might have an attitude be prepared for isolation, even from him. The guy would leave you in a room for a week until he decides you are worthy enough to see him.

Would probably end up giving s/o Stockholm Syndrome and wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt

10/10 for like hitting all the yandere marks, but honestly s/o might not mentally (or physically) survive

Trafalgar D. Water Law 

My boy! Doffy said it himself, there is some of him in Law, and that also goes with yandere tendencies! Law would definitely be a manipulative and isolated type of yandere. Boy is so stressed he just wants to protect his s/o from everything. But he also still has to act tough and play the pirate part, so be prepared for threats about being sliced in half if you think about leaving.

He’s probably the chillest in terms of letting s/o do their own thing/hobbies unless it involves them getting hurt, then forget it, find a new hobby. 

If s/o was sad/crying/upset he wouldn’t know what to do, but just stares at them. Part of him blames himself which leads to him not wanting to comfort them because who would want him? And the other half is angry at s/o or the individual for allowing the person to make s/o that upset. So definitely a quiet watcher as s/o lets the emotions out, afterwards he might ask if you want to talk about it, depending on the situation.

The crew can hang out with s/o since Law isn’t a huge jealous type, but don’t expect the Straw Hat gang to be chummy with them, they are his, get your own. 

9/10 cause boy needs to calm down and take some melatonin 

Bartolomeo

We all see how he obsesses over the Straw Hat gang (especially Luffy); boy would lose his mind over a s/o. The submissive type yandere, one who gives all his love and honestly doesn’t expect much back. Probably would just stalk his s/o and make sure they always get home safe and maybe sometimes will leave them small gifts at their door.

Would literally break down if he saw s/o crying or upset and would ruin his stalking just to run out and comfort them (which might confuse/weird out s/o-)

Knows everything about s/o, from favorite food to that one time in grade school where s/o got pantsed.

8/10 for caring, but doesn’t initiate unless really needing to. Really just wants s/o to live their best life (while he watches from afar).

Boa Hancock

If Doffy is King of Yanderes in One Piece, Hancock is the Queen. She’s definitely another submissive type yandere who will follow whatever s/o tells her to do. 

“Hancock, you need to pay attention to the meeting.”

“Yes s/o-sama~!! Kyaa~!!”

She’s also the delusional type of yandere so sometimes s/o has to remind her, they are indeed not dating/married. 

If s/o were to get upset/sad/cry Hancock will definitely be the type to ask “who did it?”, whether it’s from her own trauma growing up or just not wanting to see her s/o so upset she doesn’t know, either way whatever happened she is going to change it!

10/10 for yandere tendencies and honestly who wouldn’t want to have her as their yandere lover.

Baby 5

Baby 5 just wants people to accept and love her (honestly same). So when s/o was kind to her and thanked her, she couldn’t look away. Were they meant to be? Are the stars in line? 

Definitely a submissive yandere; I wouldn’t put her as fully delusional like Hancock, but she can get up there at times! 

She tries to act tough and not wanting s/o’s attention, but God when she gets it the girl is gone. Will literally get beet red when s/o compliments her on something random/small, lord be with her when it’s something big.

Would remember every anniversary and special day of s/o’s and wouldn’t even get mad if s/o happens to forget or says they are too busy for a big event she planned. As long as s/o continues to want her, she’s happy!

She would be in the mixture of Hancock and Bartolomeo on seeing her s/o distraught. She doesn’t know if she should comfort them, cry with them, solve the problem or do all three.

9/10 but baby needs to learn to love herself :(

Runner Ups:

Eustass Kid

Vinsmoke Ichiji

Vinsmoke Niji

Vinsmoke Yonji

Charlotte Pudding

Monet 

[animeomegas]

Ooh, congratulations, you totally deserve it ❤️ since I have such a soft spot for teasing a certain person, 10 + Sasuke please 🌿

(Yay! Thank you! I think many people on this blog have a soft spot for teasing Sasuke hehe)

10 Jealously + Sasuke

Oh boy, Sasuke is such a jealous omega!

But some things make him a lot more jealous than others.

It’s a sliding scale.

So, what makes Sasuke the most jealous?

Well, it’s actually Naruto.

If Sasuke’s alpha is spending a lot of time with Naruto, or they’re coming home with his scent on them, Sasuke is prone to a little bit of insecure freaking.

If a random omega starts hitting on you, Sasuke is possessive, but not threatened.

If you start getting chummy with Naruto, however? He feels very threatened and insecure.

Sasuke likes Naruto (even if he won’t admit it), so he can see all his good qualities much easier.

Why wouldn’t anyone choose Naruto over Sasuke? Pretty much everyone else did.

He’s sunshine incarnate. His scent is extremely sweet. He finds popping out children easy and fun. Isn’t that the perfect omega?

Waiting outside of the academy for his daughter in the hot sun of Konoha was not Sasuke’s favourite activity. But you were here with him today, so, maybe it wasn’t as bad as normal.

Then your arm started to snake around his waist. He slapped it away. Okay, maybe it was worse than normal.

“Not in public,” Sasuke reprimanded you quietly. “It’s too hot anyway, I already told you to keep your hands to yourself.”

You whined playfully at him.

“You’re so mean to me… How have I survived having such a cold mate?”

Sasuke expertly ignored you with a roll of his eyes.

 “Hey guys!” came a bright and familiar voice from behind, causing both of you to turn.

“Naruto!” you cheered, bringing the man in for a hug. “What are you doing here?”

Naruto accepted the hug enthusiastically.

“I had a few minutes spare from work, so I thought I’d come down and walk my daughter home from the academy today.”

“Aw,” you teased, poking him in the stomach. “Such a good dad.”

Naruto blushed and sputtered under the compliment, while Sasuke felt his stomach start to twist. He walked his daughter home from the academy every day that he was in the village, but his alpha had never said that about him.

“Although,” you continued, voice lined with laughter. “I’m not sure I believe this was a sanctioned break from paperwork. Are you sure you aren’t using this as an excuse to escape for a bit?”

Naruto flushed, averting his eyes.

“Busted~” you sang.

“Please don’t tell Shikamaru!” Naruto begged, deciding to dramatically fall to his knees in front of you for added effect.

Sasuke tuned out the rest of your conversation. Naruto and you were starting to get a few stares from the other parents at the gate. They seemed amused. They must be thinking that you were Naruto’s alpha, that you were a cute couple. Sasuke’s chest started to hurt. You never interacted with him like that.

Before he could stop himself, he stepped right into your personal space, ignoring the uncomfortable clinging of the summer heat on his skin. The wound his arm around your waist, pulling you firmly to his chest.

He could feel you stumble a little at his tug, before sending him a questioning glance. He ignored the knowing look you sent him after getting a whiff of his scent.

At that moment the front doors of the academy burst open and far too many children came flooding out, desperate to escape school for the weekend. Noticing his daughter, Naruto quickly excused himself.

Yours and Sasuke’s daughter quickly followed suit.

 It wasn’t until that night that you had the chance to bring up Sasuke’s behaviour earlier.

You were sliding into some pyjamas while Sasuke was reading in bed.

When you were done, you slid in next to him, giggling lightly as your thoughts turned to the events that occurred earlier that day.

“What?” Sasuke deadpanned, not bothering to look up from his book.

You grinned at him.

“Oh, I was just thinking about how cute you were when you were jealous this afternoon.”

Sasuke’s cheeks reddened as he scoffed.

“Jealous? I wasn’t jealous.”

“You were, cutie, don’t deny it.”

Sasuke sputtered, finally closing the book and giving you his full attention.

“Why on earth would I be jealous of Naruto? He’s an idiot. Clearly, the summer sun was making you hallucinate.”

You smiled at him like a predator cornering their prey. He couldn’t stop the shivers going down his spine.

“I don’t believe I mentioned anything about Naruto.”

Sasuke picked the book back up and buried his face in it, embarrassed, as he tried in vain to ignore the sound of his alpha laughing.

[movedtodykedvonte]

Jack Fain Headcanons

Do you ever think Jack made diss tracks for his coworkers? Like the meanest lines pointing out their flaws while he was being a sewer boy.

Born 1904 (died/inked in 1943 at 39)

The middle child of three, average nuclear family model

Parents were performers; Mom a singer at a high profile club while his dad played her accompaniment

Jack and his siblings would be brought along after school to watch as they’d be out to long for an average babysitter

Siblings and him would pretend to perform backstage, Jack getting really into it when he started making new songs for them to play out rather than the ones his mom would sing

As he got older the songs got less childish and more nuisances, taking from his experiences and thoughts to actually have a message rather than just being about like… candy

Mom picked up one of his drafts and decided to incorporate him into the act. Jacks love of song writing and singing was cemented

Performed more until some nights people came to see him or his siblings who he put into the songs

Wanted him and his siblings to beach out but they wanted a simpler life, seeing it more as local town fun

Jack wanted to keep writing and performing and left home around 17 to the inner city.

Didn’t look down at their choice but his idea of a simple life was having fun doing what he loved

He would be a beatnik if it were the times

Jumped around clubs to get his name out there and had a bit of a following. Performed for his love of the art rather than the money

Still you need money in this world so he started taking commissions for songs and “selling out” (bitch you need rent money)

Met Sammy at a gig when the kid was 15 and he was 19, they got along decently as Sammy liked he could play undisturbed and Jack had someone that didn’t mind he was an attention hog

Still thought he was a bit rude

Sammy and him started officially working together after another shared gig when Jack helped him negotiate a better deal (16 and 20)

Didn’t like the deal Sammy took with Joey but kept quiet as it paid better than anything before, more consistently

Didn’t like Joey at all actually as he could see the guy was faker than a love ballad for a dog written by a cat.

Also the facets Joey got real chummy with Sammy real fast and tried to keep him out of it

Didn’t hate the toons but missed the freedom to write about whatever he wanted rather than kid’s stuff

Alice was his favorite as he wrote most songs for her

Hid all his ire over the entire ink situation as he knew nothing he said could do anything

Uncovered the sewer on a day he and Sammy had a spat over staying at the studio

Secretly and slowly moved things down to his little nook, both not to strain himself or draw attention

Just wanted to get away and feel like he had the freedom to do what he wanted with his words… even in the confined and smelly space

Overheard a lot of Joey’s secrete meetings with Tom, most were about how to get the piping around the building

The one time he heard something fishy they noticed him and he decided the sewers need a break

Was lured back down when his hat went missing shortly after clearing almost everything but the desk and a few drafts out

When he went back to get them a flood suddenly happened and he was never seen after

Searcher Jack and Random junk

Jacks hat was given to him by his father before he left for the city. It was highly sentimental

Drank his coffee with lots of milk and no sugar

Got along great with Allison and Susie and was sad they couldn’t settle their differences

Inked Jack flooded the sewer to feel and stay safe as nothing could get him

Remembers Sammy but stays away as he feels like he failed him

Ink Jack sings by gurgling

I bet he definitely had some fire lines about the ink being black like Joeys soul.

[queenoftheworldisdead]

Cupid

Note: This is for @afriendlyblackhottie​​ Brat and Birthday challenge. Happy Bday Month 🎉🎈🎊🎂🍰! I chose Cupid by 112. Chris art work by @nix-akimbo​ she is amazing here is the original.

Summery: Ransom likes a bridesmaid.

Warning: Daddy Kink, gag, oral (reader receives), sex

Groomsman Band member Ransom x Black Reader, Knives out Alternative Universe

Leaning in the archway of the reception hall you sighed watching the newlyweds dance their first dance. You didn't want to be here. Not after all the shit he put Courtney, the bride, through.

But your bestie was the kind of girl that could not function without a man in her life. He had cheated on her five times, that you knew of. You were sure there was more, but she as well as you were tired of the berating.

It was always the same. He cheated, she cried, you picked up the pieces and then when he was ready she would go back. Pathetic.

"Aw don't pout princess your day will come" your eyes rolled at the sound of his voice. You had the misfortune to be linked with Ransom, the cousin of the groom. All the other bridesmaids drooled over him, but you weren't impressed. This rich boy was looking to add to his body count so you only interacted with him only when you needed to.

Their family had paid for this whole affair. You nearly punched one of the grooms relatives when she made a remark on Courtney's color choices. They were all on your shit list.

Just ignore him. Its almost over and you will never have to see him again.

As the song ended everyone applauded while you made your way over to the open bar. Your wrist was snagged as you crossed his path. Snatching it back you looked at him as if he grew another head.

"Look you don't want to be here I don't want to be here. Let's be miserable together." He held up his hands in surrender. You were stuck on this island and you were smart enough not to fall for dumb shit so you gave yourself permission to relax.

You both took over an empty table in the back of the massive hall. Ransom disappeared for a bit, then returned with two bottles of champagne and two glasses. The bar was an open bar, but you were sure they weren't handing out bottles left and right.

"OK let's play a game to pass the time." Ransom proposed as he approached.

"Game? What kind of game?" You waited curiously. Sitting the glasses and bottles down Ransom proceeded to pop the cork on one of the bottles of Champaign.

"We both take turns pointing out people we think the other would fuck."your mouth fell open with his boldness as he spoke. "If you guess wrong you have to take a sip. Yatta yatta you get it."

"Are you just trying to get me drunk?" You squint at him playfully suspicious.

"Nah, just bored. So come on let's play."

You watched as he poured the glasses to the brim, when he handed you the bubbling glass you thanked him. Ransom moved his chair next to you, sitting shoulder to shoulder so you both were sure to have the same view of the people on the floor.

"Ladies first" he held his glass high. You clinked your glass with his signaling ‘good game’.

"What about her?" You pointed to Courtney's great aunt. The lovely woman was at least eighty-seven, you knew this would be a 'no', but why not start off with a softball.

He gave you a look that made you snort.

"Wow was that a laugh? I seriously didn't think the ice queen was capable. You didn't even smile for the wedding photos. Achievement unlocked." Ransom was full of himself.

"No one is gonna believe I got the frost queen to crack a smile." Ransom boasted.

You took a sip from your glass so you didn't have to reply. There was nothing to smile about. You didn't approve of this wedding so you weren't going to act like you were. Courtney was lucky you even agreed to be a bridesmaid.

"OK my turn." He observed the crowded floor, before finding his mark. "Glasses two o'clock."

You searched out 'Glasses' and scoped him out. Tall, put together nicely. "Yep."

"Really?" He gave you a look, that made it hard to fight back the curl of your lip.

"Yep..I have particular taste." You say casually with a shrug.

"Well all right to each his own I guess."

"My turn" you stopped for a beat then found her. " Oh what about her?" you pointed to a tall slender blonde.

"Ugh no...That's my aunt."

"Oooops....My bad... let me see who else, umm" you looked around the room, but he only looked at you.

"Oh! Oh! Her" you pointed to Stephani, a younger cousin of Courtney's. Thick thighed, uber fit college student.

"You can't go twice. Take your sip."

"What that was your aunt that cant count" you argued back.

"A no is a no" he tutted.

"Fine" you gulped from your glass and waited your turn.

"OK my turn. Hmm...What about him" he pointed to an older man that was chatting up a bridesmaid that was way to young for him.

"Eww nah not my type, but he might have gotten a yes back in the day." You tilted your head with a smirk.

"Oh thank gawd. That's my dad."

"What the fuck? Dude gross" you slapped at his shoulder and laughed. Ransom rubbed it fanning pain.

"Hey you picked my aunt" he chuckled with you.

"Yeah but I didn't know she was your aunt!"

After finishing the first bottle you started to feel loose. Ransom's arm stretched out along the back of your chair, slyly rubbing circles on your bare arm, while you leaned snuggled into his side as you both continue to people watch.

"So what do you do?" You asked him.

Ransom was silent for a moment. Taking a long swig from the glass before looking over at you and sighing.

"I'm in a band."

"Oh really, is that your little hobby you do before you take over the board seat at your grand-papa's company?" you bit back a laugh. Ransom frowned at you, but you didn't care.

You knew of the older Thrombey, the famous author and owner of a publishing house. Through rehearsal you watched the interactions between the two and you knew that Ransom was the favorite of the acclaimed writer's brood.

"I don't want anything to do with that company believe it or not. I love music always have."

"Must be nice to play in a band bankrolled by a publishing house. What are y'all called 'Blood and Rock'" you laughed at the ridiculousness of it.

"Ha wrong again. We're called 'Coffee and Roses'. And I've been cut of financially ever since I got these bad boys" Ransom shimmed out of his blazer and rolled up his sleeves. His well toned arms were completely covered in ink. When he pulled down his collar you were able to see the massive art work that encompassed his neck, you bit into your bottom lip as he allowed you to ogle him. "This art work was not board approved " he joked. The booze mixed with Ransom's rocker bod was starting to lower your inhibitions and you needed to put a stop to it.

"Your cousin is a piece of shit." You changed the subject before taking a pull from your glass.

"Yeah well he gets that from his dad, he's always been an asshole."

"Apples don't fall far do they?" You snipped. When Ransom didn't respond you looked over, he was looking at his father who had now moved on to another pretty young thing.

"He made a mistake and he is fixing it." Ransom replied, suddenly in defense of his cousin.

The mistake in question was a child, by another woman. That baby you thought would be the final straw to break the camels back.

"Diamonds don't fix problems." You didn't come from money, but you knew that this wedding was a band-aid. And once it got wet you wondered what would be the gift for the next 'mistake'.

The groom had always bought his way out of his binds. The more he fucked up the more money he poured on it. This wedding you couldn't even fathom the cost. The wedding ring alone looked like it could choke a horse. And this destination wedding on his dime made you think on what happened in the interim leading up to this event.

"You're a really good friend. She's lucky that she has someone that cares so much." You both stared into the distance at the couple. They danced and smiled at each other so happy, but you felt sick. Ransom's sweet words made you immediately suspicious of his intent, his cousin had a habit of talking sweet, but he was a fucking snake. You weren't going to end up like Courtney.

"Look don't think that just because we got all chummy that all of a sudden I am gonna want to bang one out." You hit your glass on the table harder than you meant to, it tipped over and spilled out the rest of your drink.

When a little bit of the liquid trickled off the table and hit your dress you pushed away from the table. Just a tiny bit, nothing major to fuss about, but you had hit your limit. You'd done the wedding, you took the pictures and you stuck around for the reception. It was time to go.

You weren't about to be some random rich kids one night stand. So you stormed off. Thankfully the ball room was not far from the adjoining hotel. Marching you fumed and you cursed your friend for being this dumb, yourself for not doing more to stop this and almost falling for Ransom's charm. Mashing the buttons you thought of changing your number, wiping your hands from this friendship and looking into an overnight flight back home.

How much worse would it be now that she was legally married to that douche bag. The thought of them having kids only served to further irked you.

Before the elevator door could close a hand sliced down the middle, halting the closure.

You stood stunned as Ransom appeared out of breath and in-between the open doors.

**"Baby, I'm so tired of the way you turn my words into deception and lies"**

Ransom consumed the space between you two. Your ass hit the hand rail as the doors closed.

"I am not my father, I am not my cousin. I liked you." His confession made your heart flutter.

Don't be stupid. He is the same as the rest of his family. Don't fall for his game.

His hands rested on the bar on either side of your hips as he stood toe to toe with you. You rolled your eyes and scoffed turning away from him, unable to keep staring into those eyes.

**Don't misunderstand me when I try to speak my mind I'm only saying what's in my heart**

With one finger he brought your focus back to him. You frowned at him, you weren't weak. You weren't falling for him no matter how much your body wanted to throw in the towel.

**Cupid doesn't lie** He leaned in close and you held your breath as your heart raced.

**But you won't know unless you give it a try** Ransom whispered over your lips before kissing you gently. You broke down allowing him to invade your mouth. His lips felt soft and his firm arms a welcome feeling as they wrapped around you.

The elevator dinged loudly and you pulled back. Your lipstick smeared on his mouth made for a funny sight. Looking at the number it was your floor then back at him.

**Give it a try** Ransom pleaded.

A switch flipped inside you. Angry at yourself you pushed past him and marched to your hotel room.

He is just a spoiled rich kid trying to have fun. Don't fall for it. You try and convince yourself.

He shouted as the doors closed and you tried to ignore him.

**Cupid doesn't lie**

He shouted again. You halted, but refused to look.

"All men lie" You stopped as you replied back at him. There wasn't a woman in your life that wasn't hurt and you didn't want to join that club. You wanted to protect yourself at all cost. You heard the elevator doors close so you let out a sigh of relief.

What if you were wrong. What if he was right? A nagging thought bubbled in your mind. He was fun, you felt at easy around him. Some part of you yearned for him to come back.

You were so lost in your own head that you hadn't heard him rush up behind you. Ransom quickly spun you around, his eyes boring into your soul. The sight of which made it hard to stay angry.

**"Oh baby, true love won't lie...But we won't know unless we give it a try"**

He kissed you again. This time more hungry than before, so much so it took your breath away as he pulled back.

**"Give it a try"** he pleaded yet again.

It was hard to get the door open with Ransom latched onto your face. Fumbling with the key you tried blindly several times to get the card in the slot with your back pressed hard against the door.

Frustrated Ransom snatched the card and opened the door for you.

"Thanks Daddy" you teased, looking up through your lashes at him.

"Daddy huh?" The grin that grew on his face was devilish indeed. "So that's it...You act all bratty to get Daddy to react. Huh?"

Scooping you off your feet he carried you across the threshold. You were so surprised that he was able to handle your weight with ease, as he walked you over to the bed, before tossing you.

"Keep the dress on and pull your tits out" he command as he furiously unbuttoned his shirt.

You marveled at the fit rocker. He revealed more tats as he opened his shirt. Pushing down your off the shoulder strap you yanked your top down. Your half bra going down with it, allowing your breast to bounce free.

"Stand up."

Without a word you rose to your feet.

"Turn around."

Again you followed his orders. The way he commanded you made your need soak through your panties.

"Gonna come deep in that pretty pussy, show you who you belong to" Ransom taunted into the shell of your ear. "Say ahh."

The neck tie that had long since come undone was now being wrapped around your open mouth, wrapping it  quickly then knotting the fabric.  

Once secure Ransom proceeded to massage your breast from behind. As he tweaked your nipples you felt his cock, hard and stiff pressed into your ass.

You pushed and rubbed against it toying with him, the hum that buzzed from his lips almost sounded primal. "Nothing but a big tease huh? Daddy's going to show you what he thinks about teases."

Pushing you over on the bed you yelped through your gag. Looking over your shoulder you watched as Ransom bunched up the fabric of your dress, tossing it over your hips to expose your ass.

Feeling cocky you twerked your ass before him, the look in his eye showed that he approved of the sight. Ransom palmed your cheeks with both his hands, kneading the soft tissue as he rubbed his erection on you.

One hand moved around your hips and on the outer-lining of your panties.

"Fuck baby girl is that all for me?" Ransom's finger pulled at the elastic that touched your bud. He felt the drenched panties and pulled them back until they snapped back in place.

"Fuck baby girl" he purred.

Ransom lowered himself onto his hunches, pulling your panties down with them. You felt his tongue lapping gently at your folds. The sensation sending shivers throughout your body.

His tongue separated your lips, you knees wanted to cave at the tantalizing feel of him. Through your gag you moaned, the slow torture of his feasting was bringing you close to the finish line.

Ransom sucked hard on your bare mound adding a finger as he rose to his feet. "You taste so sweet baby." He praised as he curled his fingers inside of you.

"Do you want to come on my cock or my fingers?" He asked as your cunt tensed around his digits. Ransom knew you were getting close and you hoped he would choose the former.

"I cant hear you" he added another digit as you begged through your gag. You wanted to feel him all of him, but there was no way to make your answer clear through the fabric.

"Well, if you are not going to answer I will pick for you."

Ransom knew what you wanted, even with your desperate mumbling. Kicking your legs father apart he then removed his fingers. You whimpered at the lack of touch, but you were also thrilled to finally get what you really wanted.

The sound of his zipper going down made you antsy. You danced on the heels of your feet with anticipation of his next move.

Ransom took his cock in one hand while he spread one of your cheeks with the other. He rubbed his cock against the deep pink within your folds.

Toying with you as you mumbled through the tie. His pre-cum mixed with your juices as he pressed his tip hard against your opening.

"Are you gonna be a good girl from me?" He teased. You furiously nodded 'yes'.

You felt the pressure of him entering you as drool seeped past your gag. "Do you belong to me?" He halted, the sudden stop drove you crazy. Again you nod and shouted 'yes' through your restraint.

"Good girl."

Ransom filled you to your core, only stopping when you sheathed him completely. You gripped the fabric of the hotel duvet, you hadn't expected him to be so big.

The slapping of flesh on flesh filled the room. His moans mixed with the sounds of your sloppy sex were enough to send you over the edge.

Ransom controlled the pace, his length undeterred by your lack of space to take him in. You cried through your gag as he sent jolts through your body. "You were made for me" he proclaimed as he snapped his hips into you.

Your mewls were muffled by the tie, but you were sure whoever was in the room next to you could still make out what was happening here.

"Fuck" he growled as he fucked you into the bed. "I'm gonna fill you up."

"Gonna make you nice and round" he slapped your ass as he thrusted. You felt your core tighten.

"Fuck Daddy I want to come on your cock!" You finally shouted as the gag finally slipped from your lips.

"Come in me Daddy!" You felt him twitch inside you at your desperate pleading.

"Oh baby girl your tempting me."

"Please!" You panted.

"Fuck" Ransom shouted as he shot his load inside you. You felt him coat you as you milked him dry.

Ransom fell on-top of you and your knees buckled, causing you both to fall forward onto the bed. Ransom moved off you, sweaty and exhausted. "Don't think that I'm done with you yet."

[nightingaelic]

I was reading your "Fallout 4 companions meet Arcade Gannon" reacts when I had an idea. FO4 companions reaction to visiting the Mojave Wasteland with the Sole Survivor.

"She was Boston, I was Vegas

She was Crêpes Suzette, I was pie

She was lectures, I was movies, but I loved her."

- Frank Sinatra, 1981, "I Loved Her"

Cait: "I've never been much of a gambler, but where there's gambling, there's usually a good time to be had."

While Cait finds the casinos of the Strip a little too ritzy for her liking, she rather enjoys the smaller, satellite venues: The Atomic Wrangler in Freeside, the Vikki and Vance casino in Primm, even the saloons in Goodsprings and the Mojave Outpost (the latter of which being where she foolishly engages in a drinking contest with Cass and happily gets her ass kicked). Her greatest enjoyment, however, comes upon discovery of the Thorn in Westside, with its arranged bouts between wasteland critters and the opportunity to go a round yourself if you're feeling lucky. Instead of the trapped horror she felt when the Combat Zone was taken over by raiders and she was forced to fight, Cait revels in the glory she reaps when choosing to face off against a fire gecko, a night stalker or a cazador with her trusty baseball bat. By the time the visit is over, she and Red Lucy have grown close, and the Thorn's mistress is going around openly calling Cait "my hunter."

Codsworth: "Ah, Las Vegas! Why, I can recall when you considered a quick getaway to this paradise just before young master Shaun's arrival. It appears we aren't too late, after all."

Codsworth is somewhat comforted by the lack of overt nuclear devastation in New Vegas, but that feeling wears off as soon as the first set of thugs in Freeside tries to corner him and the sole survivor and take their caps. Once the would-be muggers are laid out on the ground, Codsworth abandons his rose-colored glasses and puts his quippy, dismayed personality back on. Still, he loves the Strip, particularly the Ultra-Luxe with its refined guests, decor and hygienic practices, but he quickly sours on their hoity-toity attitudes. Instead, Codsworth turns to the presence of the NCR as a sign that civilization is creeping back into the wasteland. He's also tickled pink by the Kings and the Chairmen, but not the mobster-esque Omertas: They remind him too much of the pre-war mob activity in good old Boston.

Curie: "Excusez-moi, but what is that structure there? The tallest one, with the blinking lights."

Curie is thrilled to be out in the desert, observing the local populace and documenting their survival techniques, social structures and power struggles. She's fascinated with the area's history, and drags the sole survivor along to seek out the Mojave's most (in)famous individuals to record their stories for her research into post-war civilization. This lands her in quite a few questionable situations, but her general attitude of perseverance and wide-eyed wonder about the world open a lot of doors for her. She makes a lot of friends at the Old Mormon Fort among the Followers of the Apocalypse, though most of them assume her frustration about her own "biological reactions to extreme living conditions" is just her complaining about the heat like everyone else. Arcade's pretty sure she's a robot, though he's too polite to ask about it outright.

Danse: "We're close now, to the birthplace of the Brotherhood of Steel. This is an honor I never thought I'd experience."

Though it's boiling hot inside his power armor under the desert sun, Paladin Danse is overjoyed that he's accompanying the sole survivor on this journey into the cradle of the ideology that he's devoted to. He's heard about the Mojave from Brotherhood of Steel veterans, those who traveled with Elder Lyons when they initially came to the Capital Wasteland and those who accompanied Elder Maxson when he was just a Squire, and he keeps spouting off random trivia about the area. Any run-ins with disillusioned Scribe Veronica might leave him a bit put out, but it's overall a fun trip for him through a part of the continent that's a little less smashed to rubble than the rest of the world. He especially enjoys visiting the NCR and Brotherhood military outposts, if only to offer critiques and suggestions to any soldiers that give him the time of day.

Deacon: "Sheesh, visiting the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter, am I right?"

Deacon has been here before. Well, he doesn't actually say he's been here before, but he keeps dropping hints to the sole survivor that he's somehow on a return trip. He knows the legends of the Sierra Madre and the Blue Star treasures offhand, he has a whole conversation with the Securitrons guarding the Strip about what happened to Robert House, he even knows how to competently play Caravan. Every time the sole survivor asks him about how he knows so much, though, Deacon just grins and keeps chugging his Sunset Sarsaparilla. Obviously no one recognizes him by face, but he does have a setting-appropriate wardrobe along that includes NCR bandoleer armor, a coat-tailed tuxedo, top hat and White Glove Society mask, and a black leather jacket to go with his pompadour wig.

Dogmeat: [curiously sniffs everything]

Dogmeat can't figure out why this place is so dang dry, but he's on his best behavior for the sole survivor as they make their way over the dusty roads of the Mojave. He politely greets each other traveler on the roads, who keep asking his companion where they got "a non-cyber cyberdog." For the most part though, the trip is pretty in line with everywhere Dogmeat goes: Big rodents, big bugs, tired people and plenty of ruins to explore. Dogmeat's one outstanding adventure comes in the form of an attempted kidnapping by some of the Kings, who think their leader needs a new dog after Rex hit the road with some fool. The King doesn't take kindly to this, and graciously has the dog returned to his friend.

Hancock: "Oh, man, how does anyone live out here? I'm drying out, I feel like a radroach husk."

Hancock is having the time of his life in the Mojave, apart from constantly complaining about how he prefers the Commonwealth's weather. He's chummy with everyone, but especially with the ghouls he encounters. He buys Raul a bunch of drinks and asks him about his past, he suggests future career paths and hobbies for Calamity, and he is absolutely enchanted with Beatrix the dominatrix. He's also rowdy enough to attract the ire of nearly every casino in New Vegas: The White Glove Society seethes when the sole survivor points out that his Revolutionary War outfit technically meets the dress code, the Omertas howl when he starts encouraging the strippers and sex workers to band together and take over the casino, and the Vault 21 dwellers keep asking if he's liable to turn feral. The Chairmen, however, treat him as something of a novelty and gift him with a seersucker suit to go with his jaunty personality.

MacCready: "You know, I played cards with a guy from out here once. He tried to teach me a game called... what was it, Candyman? Kilogram?"

MacCready has the barest smattering of knowledge about the Mojave Wasteland, and he keeps injecting it into conversations no matter how inaccurate it is. He's fascinated with the sole survivor's recollections of what Vegas was like before the Great War, and his expectations are sky-high by the time they arrive on the city's outskirts. Those expectations are absolutely met once inside the Strip, even if the sole survivor's are let down. MacCready is just tickled by the existence of a city that is solely dedicated to parting you from your caps, and he settles into each new business for the express purpose of people-watching. He only tries gambling once, and immediately quits after he loses all of his pocket change.

Valentine: "Good old Las Vegas. Somehow, I'm not surprised it's still got a reputation as 'Sin City,' even this long after the bombs."

The Nick Valentine of old never visited Las Vegas, but he certainly knew about it well enough for the Nick Valentine of today to draw on those impressions. He's extra-wary about the city as a result, an attitude not helped by the many people staring at him because of his detective getup, jagged edges and golden eyes. Some people are polite enough to walk up and ask what he is: Others offer to buy him off the sole survivor directly, much to Nick's chagrin. When James Garret offers him a thousand caps for "one night of his services," Nick puts his foot down and starts glaring at everyone who so much as walks up to him and the sole survivor during their trip. The exceptions to this rule are Veronica, who is extremely polite and non-invasive with her questioning; Arcade, who is too polite to even mention Nick's synthetic state; and Raul, who finds the whole thing hilarious but admits that his ghoul status has landed him in some similar situations.

Piper: "I've heard plenty of stories about this place, and if even a quarter of them are true, I ought to get a good travel piece out of just about anyone we pass on the street."

Piper's on a mission to track down the history of New Vegas, which, like Curie, sends her on a path toward its biggest political figures. Aside from them, she's particularly interested in the services of the Mojave, like the Gun Runners, the Crimson Caravan Company, and especially the Mojave Express. Piper gets along swell with just about everyone, and she basks in the widespread acceptance that she lacks back home due to her chosen profession. She desperately tries to get Johnson Nash to ship a case of Sunset Sarsaparilla cross-continent for her, but he gently turns her down and tells her that the only courier he knows crazy enough to undertake a trip to the Commonwealth is too busy nowadays.

Preston: "They're not too friendly to outsiders here, or so I'm told, but there are always good folks to be found if you know where to look."

Preston, true to form, offers help to every little settlement he and the sole survivor come through on their journey, which delays their path to Vegas quite a bit. He makes a beeline for the Old Mormon Fort as soon as he hears the Followers of the Apocalypse have a base there, though, and spends most of his visit picking the brain of its leaders about the best ways to aid those in need in the wasteland. He and Arcade get into some spirited debates about the pros and cons of having a civil service force focused on military matters versus civilian matters, and the Minutemen leader leaves the Mojave with a lot of new ideas to carry home to the Commonwealth.

Strong: "Strong not looking for 'good time,' puny human. Strong looking for thing that make super mutants stronger."

Strong hates New Vegas, but that's nothing unexpected. The sole survivor tries to limit their time in the city and take him around the desert to locales where super mutants are more likely to be found, which brings them to Jacobstown. Surprise surprise, Strong hates Jacobstown - at first. Little by little, through talking with Lily, the other nightkin, and Marcus, Strong starts to realize that the super mutants of the town are doing exactly what he values and sharing their resources among each other for the good of the community, just minus the usual violence associated with super mutants. He struggles with this alternative way of life for a bit, but eventually comes to accept that to be a super mutant, you don't have to constantly attack those around you to show off your strength.

X6-88: "Be careful. The Institute's records about this area indicate high levels of theft, murder, and unsavory characters. It would be best to keep our guard up."

Like Nick, X6-88 greets everyone in the Mojave with open suspicion, and can hardly be convinced to leave the sole survivor's side for their entire journey. His dedication to this task leads those around him to joke about him being "a human Securitron," which the sole survivor finds amusing: X6-88 does not. Still, the ability to hire and maintain a professional-looking bodyguard while visiting New Vegas doesn't go unnoticed, and most people assume that means the sole survivor has a lot of money to spend or be separated from by force. Criminals are more likely to be ruthless, hell-bent on stealing the loads of caps the sole survivor surely has tucked away. Business owners, on the other hand, are more polite to the pair on their travels, giving them better service and goods that ingratiate X6-88 a bit more to the common people aboveground.

BONUS!

Ada: "Jackson brought us out here once, when Zoe decided she wanted to try acquiring a Securitron. The leader of the Strip turned us down."

While Deacon is playing coy about his experience in the Mojave, Ada is completely open about hers. She hasn't been to the Strip, the dam, or any of the Mojave's "fun" destinations, but she remembers the Crimson Caravan Company headquarters, the 188 trading post, and many of the small towns along the way. Her fondest memories are of scavenging around the ruins of the REPCONN test site, the Aerotech Office Park and HELIOS One. She also recalls that her caravan friends came to visit primarily to find a Securitron to take apart and repurpose, but won't say exactly what happened when they tried to do so, other than warn the sole survivor "not to invite the wrath of the House."

Gage: "Now this is a town that knows how to run a successful racket. We need to find out who's in charge, see if they can give us some tips."

Porter Gage walks right up the steps of the Lucky 38 as soon as he finds out that someone inside is running the Strip, and demands that the Securitrons let him in to "talk to the boss." The robots aren't impressed, of course, and toss him out straightaway. Gage, not one to be discouraged easily, tries to find information among the nearby raider gangs instead: Fiends, Vipers, Jackals or Great Khans, he's not too picky. The current state of the raiders in the Mojave quickly informs him that they're failing one by one against the power of New Vegas, and he renews his efforts to find the recipient of the endless streams of caps. Thwarted at every turn, he and the sole survivor retire to Gomorrah, where they bemoan their bad luck while the courier sits a few seats down from them, listening in and smirking.

Longfellow: "Just point me to the nearest saloon. If I can't cool down, I'll try to forget I'm hot."

Longfellow parks himself at the nearest watering hole and does his best to avoid the scorching Mojave heat. The Maine-born grandpa is pretty miserable during the daytime hours unless he's sitting in front of a fan with a cold beer, swapping stories about Far Harbor critters with the bar regulars. At night he's a bit more open to adventuring with the sole survivor, when the desert cools down and he can see the sights by moonlight. Although he's not a fan of the hustle and bustle of the Strip, most of the large casinos there have air conditioning thanks to the Lucky 38, so he claims a table in the back and glares at anyone who disturbs him and his drink. He gets along with most of the New Vegas crowd though, if they agree to pick up the tab.

Maxson: "We came this way, when the Elders sent me to the East Coast. I wonder if the chapter here is still persevering."

Elder Maxson is surprisingly reluctant to visit the two things that the sole survivor would've thought he'd be interested to see in the Mojave: The Strip, or the Hidden Valley bunker. If pressed, he'll admit that he's not the type to cut loose and gamble, drink or participate in general debauchery as a result of his upbringing and position of authority, but neither is he keen to drop in on the dying Western chapters of his order and become stifled by protocol and ass-kissing. He prefers to wander the desert itself, seeking solitude among the cacti and under the stars. Given the chance, he'd probably nip off to Quarry Junction and anonymously solve the NCR's deathclaw problem, if it hasn't already been taken care of. He refuses to wear his uniform for the entire trip.

Desdemona: "The Mojave probably wouldn't know what to make of our mission, which is how you know it's a good place to hide. I wonder if any of our rescued synths made it out this far."

This is by far the most relaxed the sole survivor has ever seen Desdemona, and why wouldn't it be? She's so far removed from her usual sphere that she drops her usual, tight-knit demeanor and embraces loosening up. She's still not talking openly about the Railroad's operations, but she is more likely to answer questions both personal and professional. Like Deacon, she knows a bit about the Mojave, but not so much that she can blend in completely. Instead, she embraces being a tourist and does all the usual things that go with it: Visiting the Strip, the Sunset Sarsaparilla headquarters, the Thorn, and especially Hoover Dam. When she's looking out over Lake Mead, with the sun getting caught in her hair as it sets on her left, she almost looks happy.

[prometheanglory]

This is random but what kind of daemon you think your twst oc ?

i haven’t actually heard of ‘his dark materials’ yet so this was a bit of a learning experience digging thru the book’s wikipedia BUT !!! the premise sounded fun so i couldn’t resist the temptation 😎

berkeley: some sort of… mutt? — a little on the nose for berkeley, but i think it’s very fitting of berk to not be of notable pedigree even with a daemon. what could suit him better than a scruffy-looking pooch! simple requires simple, and his daemon matches him in protectiveness, loyalty, but overall chummy nature! a little clumsy and headstrong, and prone to aggression but it’s all mostly in good faith. neither of them are particularly ambitious people, however they stand strong for what they believe in, even if it isn't that grand.

cordell: domestic pigeon — i’m thinking specifically of homing pigeons, but overall! i’ve chosen pigeons for their very tame and gentle personality! i’ve always had a fondness for associating cordell with wood pigeons just because of their similar muted colors and softer… aesthetics? i’m not calling him a dove because that’s got its own connotations and i like pigeon connotations better. a little airheaded but very cool and calm otherwise! a bird that can adapt to most situations and return home no matter where they may end up — i think it captures cordell’s very open but nonetheless serene outlook on things!

chase: moose — big, intimidating, and would mostly prefer to be left alone. while neither of them are inherently aggressive, they’re both stuck in their ways and don’t like to be forced to change or follow unwelcome leads. things can become quite nasty with them if their boundaries are taken too lightly. while undoubtedly a pillar of silent pride and strength, their ultimate folly is being overly suspicious and wary of others, and too keen on doing everything by themselves. they should learn to concede ground when there is nothing left to stand for.

eddie: opossum — a scrappy and admittedly strange little marsupial that skitters through a variety of situations without much concern for where it is or what exactly it's doing… however it certainly suits eddie! they’re both not incredibly aggressive however when they land in situations they don’t like (which are few and far between), they tend to lash out more than they would like to. all they really wanna do is stay in their lane.

edgar: raven — creepily intelligent and accompanied by the unease of the macabre, i think the bird suits him quite nicely! his crafty nature accompanied by his strangely outspoken demeanor (and his very… scavenger-y personality), the only other possible option would be a crow however… ravens just fit any gloomy writers named edgar more 🥴 he's an adaptable guy with a high tolerance for everything, but more over anything else is his keen memory that maybe makes him a little... a little too sentimental.

flint: goat — admittedly a bit plain, but nothing would suit the pristine flint better than the gruff goat. they embody a straightforward existence that cuts no corners and seldom lets anybody else take shortcuts either. while not refined or born into high graces, their adaptable nature allows them to always push for a sense of order and control no matter where they may find themselves. some may view them as a bully, and maybe it's not far from the truth, but you gotta at least respect the integrity and audacity.

guts: black bear — it is certainly more skittish than its bigger counterparts… but don’t let that trick you into thinking its a poor excuse of a bear. solitary, nonchalant, and flexible with wherever the flow goes! he has no interest in picking fights or getting too riled up, but as cowardly as both guts (and the black bears) may seem, he clings to his own sense of privacy and doesn’t like to let other people interfere with them. they're more tenderhearted and emotional than their appearances or demeanors would outwardly suggest, but they'd prefer to keep it that way.

holly: domestic cat — you know how people say that you shouldn’t let cats out because they're apex predators? yeah. like that. a sweetly fickle woman who’s limber and languid atmosphere hides a dangerously clever demeanor that’s only really held back by her own laziness and vague disinterest. her daemon… politely chatty but there’s always a distinct sense of slyness to it. ambitious isn't the immediate word you'd associate with her, however it really just begs the question of why it feels like she always seems to have some sort of goal in mind that's juuuust out of reach.

lola: scarlet macaw — loud, social, bold, and free! playful but never underhanded! i don’t think anything else could really suit lola outside of such a brilliant bird (aside from… u know. a spotted hyena. but shh.). a macaw encompasses the mildly cumbersome and clumsy aspect to lola, however it doesn't detract from her undoubtedly clever and quick-thinking demeanor! they live life with no restraints and no bars holding them back, always looking for the most exuberant of situations (but sometimes, at the expense of others).

marian: oriental magpie — a sign of good fortune and a creature of concerning intelligence…! a bird that can remember a face and come back with a vengeance is definitely something that suits marian’s petty temper. it'd be dangerous if either he or the bird had any real ambitions, but it's their equally fickle and plucky personalities keeping us safe. other than that, they're incredibly chatty and at times, dangerously territorial but for the most part, they're pretty much harmless aside from a bout of aggressive bravado.

musu: ferret — slippery, crafty, loose, and free! what could be a better match for musu! sure, there’s more threatening options out there that would probably be cooler, but none of them particularly capture musu’s playful scrappiness in the same way that those little bandits do. not much of a true threat, never been much of a strong presence, but he’s more of a nuisance than anything else.

nik: rabbit — skittish, high energy, and a little more destructive than you immediately expect…. but ultimately very flexible in their lives! both don’t like to be cornered and are quite prone to turning tail when disaster rears its head. once you finally gain their fickle trust though, you’ll find that they’re pretty playful and curious at the core!

penn: mouse — quiet and reclusive, but adaptable and stubborn (of a very subtle sort). he and his daemon are both surprisingly hard to get under wraps and to fully control, despite their initial ‘cowardly’ impressions. there’s a certain air of craftiness that surrounds them both, just of a lesser intentionally malicious degree.

ronaldo: swan — beautiful and gentle connotations aside, it’s critical to recognize the swan is embody ronaldo’s incredibly aggressive, bossy, and prideful nature. while it’s possible to misinterpret their hostility as simple bravado, it discredits the very righteous, frank, and driven nature that is ronaldo at the core. never a pushover, always outspoken, but never a reckless idiot. they have dignity, you know (and sometimes dignity is all they have).

sarge: ewe — sacrificial lamb of god aka the big J-Man. i’m mainly joking 😊 but not entirely because an animal as domesticated and soft as a sheep can only be sarge. it’s incredibly social, prefers to follow others’ lead, and moves along the tide of life without any complaints. also the sheer amount of cultures with some sort of status elevating of an animal like a sheep tickles my brain :-) they're not very ambitious or driven, but they like for things to stay as calm as possible.

ulysses: koala — stupid, cute, and horribly mean, but ultimately stupid at the end of the day. that’s the main reasoning here. too stubborn to really change their ways, but at the same time, it’s not like either of them really know any other way to live other than the way they always have lived. they’re content as is to keep up their old patterns, and will likely maul someone if poked too much. they

vinh: crane — honestly i was stuck between a deer, owl, and crane but i feel that the crane honestly suits her best (tsuru no ongaeshi/tsuru nyoubou/ isycus’ crane/hephaestus purposes)🤪 graceful and serene, gentle yet wary… the embodiment of deference, complete with the dedication, devotion, and dutiful demeanor that knows no bounds. however, despite their nose for justice + responsibility, they are still spineless and fragile individuals with little no sense for self-preservation. nonetheless, they champion obligation above all else (very much at their own expense).

xuehai: rooster — ferocious and ever-proud, and synonymous with being a dick if you use the right word… while a peacock was also an option, i think the way that roosters are both decorative and aggressive is very xuehai :-) loud, competitive, and more headstrong than most people prefer to deal with — you’ll definitely know who tends to run the show if u run into either of them. even then, it's not like their aggression is ever fully unwarranted. they're very wary and protective people who prefer to have as much power as they can in a situation.

[ficklewish]

Dance the Night Away

Diluc x reader

Genre: fluff

WC: 1.6K

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, not proofread

a/n: dance the night away by twice came on while I was thinking of a title so that happened 🕴 diluc might be ooc here, I apologize for that ;;

You hated these formal events. Being forced into an elegant yet uncomfortable outfit and having to be all chummy with random snobby nobles made you want to hurl, especially the overconfident noble men who seemed to not know what personal space was.

You were currently leaning against a pillar, away from the main crowd of the event with a non alcoholic drink in hand. Noble men and women spoke amongst themselves, high pitched laughs and obnoxious chuckles sounding throughout the venue in attempts to win over someone for business. You wanted to go home, but never acted on it as your mother would flip her shit if she found out you had left instead of coming home with a stuck up rich person, ready to marry you so your family could gain more power and money.

You sneered at the thought, hating that your mother only thought of you as a possible bank. Scanning the crowd, all you saw was old men with large beer bellies and women with a little too much lipstick, and you had to clamp your mouth shut to keep from letting a loud groan leave your lips. Taking another sip from your drink of choice, you decide to head towards one of the balconies away from the crowd before a flash of bright red comes into your peripheral.

That's where you first saw him, Diluc Ragnvindr. One of, if not the most chased after man in all of Mondstadt. You couldn't deny that the chatter from gossiping girls on the main street about him had intrigued you a bit, wondering what the man acted like to have everyone want to be married to him. From what you could see, Diluc was an attractive man, and from the way both old and young women swarmed him the second he stepped foot on the main floor, everyone seemed to think that way as well. You almost felt bad for the wine owner, seeing that his personal bubble had been popped by the women trying their best to grab his attention. Almost.

From personal experience, in your mind, all noblemen were the same. Faking their smiles, using their charms and looks to take advantage of people desperate to climb up the social ladder, and once they had gotten what they wanted, they would drop them like old toys in favour for new ones. You experienced it first hand thanks to your father, who used your mother for a better reputation and dropped her the moment someone better came along. Due to this, you despised them all, no matter how nice they seemed in the public eye. The same goes for Diluc, as you looked at him with mild disgust, deciding not to wonder about what he would do to some poor noble. Taking one last look at the man, you make a beeline for a balcony farthest away from the crowd.

Breathing in the cold night air, you sigh, grateful to have been able to escape from the stuffy room, the smell of alcohol was becoming too much. You swirl your drink in your hand, looking over the city of freedom with a bored look. Placing your glass on the railing, you tense at the sound of footsteps nearing your area, praying to Barbatos that whoever was heading your way would leave you be. The anemo archon however, had other things planned for you, as the culprit of your anxiety stands a good distance away from you, heaving a loud sigh which sounded close to a groan of tiredness. Peeking through your peripheral view, you almost choked on your spit when you realized that it was Diluc who stood near you. Still looking at him from the corner of your eye, he looked irritated and tense, most likely from the mob of attention seeking women. It hadn't seemed like he even realized that you were on the balcony, too caught up in trying to relax.

You awkwardly cough to announce your presence, and Diluc snaps his head towards the sound, visibly tensing a bit, however his face was blank, likely trying to hide his surprise. "My apologies, I didn't notice anyone was here." You shake your head, hoping to calm his nerves a bit. "It's alright, no need to apologize." Diluc's shoulders drop a bit, some tension leaving his body, but not entirely. He turns toward the railing, leaning against it. "If you don't mind, I would like to ask for your reasoning in being here. I don't recognize you." You still for a moment, not wanting to be vulnerable in his presence, and he seems to take notice. "That is…if you feel comfortable sharing, I do not want to make you uncomfortable." Pondering his question, you decide to tell him the truth. It's like your disgust for him that was present a while ago had vanished instantly, as the aura around Diluc felt safe and comforting, like he was a friend you've always known.

You both had a nice conversation with each other, talking about the wine industry or taking jabs at the snotty nobles in the gala behind you. From what you could gather, Diluc hated the nobles just as much as you did, didn't like alcohol which was ironic since he owned the Dawn Winery, and had an adoptive brother named Kaeya who was currently drinking the night away, or so he told you. From behind, you hear the orchestra prepare to play a slow piece, intended to have the guests have a dance. Deciding that it was time for you to head home, you only manage to take one step before Diluc stops you with a hand on your wrist. "Forgive me if I'm being too bold, but would you like to have a dance with me?" You feel your face burn, and give a slow nod to him. A tiny smile blooms on his lips, and his hand moves from your wrist to gently hold onto your hand, guiding you to the floor to dance with him.

When walking over to the floor, you notice the nobles have started whispering about who you were and why were you with Diluc. Most of the women sent nasty glares, while some were giggling to others. You did your best to ignore them, keeping your head held high as Diluc takes you to the center of the floor. At the center, he turns to you, still holding your hand as he begins to look bashful. "Are you ready?" You nod once more, giving a reassuring squeeze to his hand as he brings you closer to him, placing his free arm gently around your midsection while the other raises your held hands up a bit. You place your unoccupied hand on his chest before glancing up at him. From this position, you really take in Diluc's features.

He is taller than what you saw from the comfortable distance you had on the balcony. His eyes a shining ruby red, which holds a sort of gentleness in them which is directed at you. His body exudes warmth, and you gladly accept it. The orchestra plays their piece, and people begin dancing with each other slowly, but you only focus on Diluc, and on not stepping on his toes. You look down at your feet, taking extra precaution to not embarrass yourself in front of the nobles, and in front of Diluc. "Eyes up here, trust me in guiding you." You quickly look back up into his eyes, and a slight smirk forms on his lips. "Are you nervous because of what they said while on our way here?" You scoff, looking around briefly before looking back at him. "Of course not, I'd rather drink wine than be nervous in front of them." He chuckles at your answer, swinging you around a bit and bringing you closer to him. His cologne invades your senses, and you breathe it all in.

"To be honest, I don't even have to be here, but I admit that watching overconfident nobles trip over their own feet from being too drunk when trying to leave does make up for the boredom of these events." You snicker, images of one of them rolling down some steps flashing in your mind. "Who knew that Master Diluc could have good humor?" He rolls his eyes at the title, the arm around your waist tightening slightly. "I have humor, thank you very much." A hearty laugh escapes you, and Diluc smiles, one bigger than what you had seen at first.

The song ends, and you become a bit saddened at the thought of having to leave. You had become slightly attached to Diluc throughout the night, and having to leave with the possibility of never seeing him again had a prick of pain shoot through your chest. Diluc gently drags you away from the floor to a secluded corner, away from the prying eyes of the nobles. Once in private, he raises your hand to his lips, giving a kiss to your knuckles before looking up at you through his lashes. "It was a pleasure dancing with you Y/N. Perhaps you'd grant me some more time to get to know you. How does dinner at the winery tomorrow sound? I'll pick you up from the gates of the city." He gives you no chance to refuse, not that you would anyway. You nod, giving him a lovestruck smile as he does the same back. "It would be a pleasure, Diluc. I can't wait." He chuckles, giving your knuckles another kiss as he stares into your eyes with a look of adoration. "Neither can I, love."

[jomiddlemarch]

Who’d have ever thought this could be?

After filming on location in Prague and Utah as the lead in back-to-back indie dramas over the past six months and coming back to find her apartment in Osalta filled with black mold after her upstairs neighbor’s toddler flooded the bathtub, requiring Alina to camp out in Gen and David’s very spare spare bedroom, the gig doing voicework for a new animated “Beauty and the Beast” seemed like an eminently reasonable idea. She could oversee her apartment reno and not worry about paying the bills while spending the day in yoga pants, a fleece vest, and her collection of ratty tee-shirts. Let her hair grow out from the chunky bangs and chunkier highlights the Utah picture had demanded, drink good coffee and eat home-made dinners she prepared in Gen’s kitchen with all the high-end gadgets David had “upgraded.” And figure out what she really wanted to do next, besides win some awards at Sundance; she’d co-written the Prague movie and was up for writing and acting credits.

She had to revise eminently reasonable to batshit crazy when she walked into the recording studio, make-up free in jeans and a hoody that had seen far, far better days, and found Aleksander Kirigan at the other mic. Perfectly coifed, his dark beard exquisitely trimmed, in a black suit that had to be couture. And then he waved at her. Like they were old friends instead of people who’d once met on a film where her scenes were cut down to about twenty seconds and he got a nomination at Cannes.

��Alina, so good to see you again,” he called out. She wasn’t really sure what the deal was, but if he was going to be all chummy, she’d match him. She was an actress after all.

“You know this is voicework, right?” she asked. “Like, no one is here to see us. That’s one of the perks.”

“I have a dinner I have to go to afterwards and I didn’t want to risk running out of time,” he said.

“You could leave here whenever you want. You’re Aleksander Kirigan and they’re expecting this to last for six weeks,” Alina said.

“That’s not my style, leaving whenever I want. Not professional,” he said. “For the record, this outfit’s not my style either, but the designer is a friend and Ivan never asks for anything.”

“Oh, well, he’s good,” Alina said, catching herself from making any comment more personal about Aleksander’s appearance. Drooling over her co-star wasn’t a great way to start and looks weren’t everything anyway. “You could tell him I said so, although the opinion of a random actress probably isn’t worth squat to an up-and-coming designer who dresses Aleksander Kirigan.”

“He’ll be glad to hear it and I’m happy to pass it on. And you underestimate yourself. I was thrilled you took the role,” he said. “I knew you’d be perfect as Belle and I told them to meet your terms, whatever they were.”

“Wait, what?” Aleksander Kirigan had told the producers to hire her? Inej, her agent, hadn’t said a word about it. She was so surprised she said the first thing that came into her mind. “I would’ve taken it for scale.”

He laughed then, a rich, deep sound, that didn’t have even a smidge of arrogance or condescension. Saints, he was attractive and she had the idea that an entire generation of little boys and girls were about to have their first crush on the Beast.

“You can’t hold yourself so cheaply anymore, Alina,” he said. “You’re the real deal, you’ve got something no one else does, it’s like sunlight, watching you act—”

“There won’t be anything to see here though,” she said. “The beauty of animation, even if they poached a bunch of these guys from Pixar.”

“You’re too modest,” he replied. “And I might’ve sweetened the pot for them a little.”

“What does that mean?” she said.

“I didn’t make any promises for you,” he said. “But I’m doing all the vocals for the Beast.”

“You’re going to sing?”

“Until they decide to replace me,” he said, with the confidence of a man who was not expecting to be replaced, which meant he had some serious skill. Which meant there was a decent chance that somewhere on the Internet, there was video of him singing in a band in college or even in an a cappella group. Which meant David could spend the night playing Risk online while she and Gen scoured YouTube and shared a quart of rum raisin ice cream.

“Sorry, sorry, loves,” Jesper, the director, called out from the booth. “You wouldn’t believe—or well, maybe you would, but we’re already behind and Sasha, darling, it’s always casual Friday here though those trousers are divine on you and Alina, if you want someone gifted at balayage, just tell my assistant and we’ll set it up straightaway because growing out highlight is such a bitch, and I see you’ve already been getting to know each other. Before I forget, do you have strong feelings about kombucha at the craft table?”

“No,” they answered at the same time, their voices blending effortlessly, a complex and resonant chord.

“That’s perfectly lovely,” Jesper said and Alina didn’t know if he meant the kombucha or their voices or something else, the undeniable energy in the recording studio. Or maybe just Aleksander in those trousers which Alina had to agree were divine enough to make a woman believe in a higher power.

@vesperass-anuna​ requested an AU where Aleksander and Alina are doing voice work for Beauty and the Beast, so here goes!

[firelxdykatara]

I really like hearing your thoughts on ships, so I was just wondering what you thought about the episode 'Seeing Red' from Buffy as a Spuffy shipper. I love the ship too and remember being so uncomfortable watching that episode. It felt like it came out of no where while I was marathoning the show

Ok so, I’ve been sitting with this for a while (my inbox is telling me it’s been 10 days......time plz stop moving without me noticing), mostly because it’s... a really Touchy topic, for a lot of (very obvious, to anyone familiar with the episode or the arc) reasons.

CW for discussion of attempted sexual assault and rape ahead. (I’m gonna talk a bit about Willow too.)

First of all, I wanna state that I understand why Seeing Red was a ‘point of no return’ for many people. There are a lot of people for whom sexual assault/rape is The Thing they simply cannot get past and they could never see Spike or Spuffy the same again, and that’s valid and understandable. For me, personally, I don’t consider it any more or less reprehensible than murder or anything else vampires and demons get up to in the show because they’re monsters and very specifically Not Human, but at the same time it felt gratuitous and unnecessary (like the writers were trying to remind us Spike was really evil right before he went to get his soul back of his own accord, and I’ll talk a bit more about that later), and the episode itself is difficult to watch. (Also because it includes Tara’s death, which wrecks me to this day.)

It’s also been a very long time since I’ve seen the episode in question, mostly because I haven’t done a full rewatch in years, and when I do watch Buffy it’s either starting from the beginning and then losing track of where i was and starting over again, or else jumping to random episodes throughout the show which I enjoy and watching those by themselves (and Seeing Red is very much not on that list lol). So I rewatched it just to refresh my memory and....god there are a lot of other reasons I don’t care for this episode. (Xander was exceptionally horrific to Buffy re: finding out she was sleeping with Spike. Gods I dislike him more and more the older I get.)

In general, it’s just a really hard episode to watch. (And I’ll never forgive Joss for finally putting Amber Benson in the opening credits, only to kill her that same episode.) There’s a lot of ugliness, and the Trio are among the worst villains in the show--not in terms of how they’re written (they feel kind of terrifyingly realistic, although they also seem kind of exceptionally meta in light of how much has come out in the last decade about Joss Whedon’s own attitudes and behavior and treatment of women), but because every other big bad with very few exceptions has the excuse of being a soulless vampire or a demon or a hellgod or some other monster that can’t really help the fact that they were made that way. The Trio are just normal dudes who think they’re entitled to women and money and power and are willing to do absolutely anything to get all three, proving that maybe it isn’t really the presence or absence of a soul that actually makes humans, like, humane.

But that’s me side-tracking. As far as Spuffy goes, yeah, this episode is pretty brutal. There’s no mincing words here--Spike attempted to rape Buffy, and he only stopped and had his ‘oh my god, what have I done’ realization after she managed to kick him off. If she hadn’t, he probably wouldn’t have stopped. And I can almost understand it, from a writing perspective--how do you make a soulless vampire realize that he’s truly a monster and, further, how do you finally get him to want to change that? Make him cross a line he never had before. Except... that really wasn’t necessary. Not for his character arc, nor for his relationship with Buffy, and a part of me thinks that it was really intennded to just drive home the message that Spike was a monster, and that Buffy could never really love him, and the easiest way to communicate that was sexual violence, something that the show never really had its vampires engage in previously. So it would be a shock to the audience, it would throw Spike’s motives into question when he went to get his soul back, and it would make his presence in season 7 a constant question, plus provide a reason for Buffy not to trust him.

I think all of this could have been achieved without the sexual violence. I think the scene was largely done for shock value--again, to douse the audience with ice water and remind them that Spike, no matter how chummy he’d seemed with the Scoobies since getting chipped and eventually working with them, was still a monster. But we really didn’t need that reminder, and I think it would’ve made more sense for him to simply attempt to kill her--still a betrayal, still shocking, still something that could spur him into the actions he would take afterwards (going to get his soul restored), but without the exceedingly uncomfortable attempted rape scene in a season where there had already been serious issues with consent.

I’m talking, specifically, about Willow.

There’s something interesting I’ve noticed in fandom, and it’s that people really don’t seem to want to talk about or acknowledge the fact that Willow raped Tara. Maybe because it was via magic, rather than violence--or because it was never really called what it actually was in the narrative, or because they’re The Gay Ship of btvs, I don’t know. But she did--when she spelled Tara to forget about their serious fight which had been building for weeks, and then went to bed with her. And then explicitly had sex with her the next day. It’s part of why I’ve always had a complicated relationship with “Under Your Spell”--I love the song, but it’s also literally spelling out the fact that Tara’s mind had been violated by the woman she loved and she could not consent to sex while under the spell.

So that moment was already toeing the line in terms of consent and at least Tara was able to talk about how Willow violated her mind and how that made her feel (in song, at that), but Seeing Red was like a slap in the face. Where Willow’s magic addiction and willingness to cross those lines had been building for more than a year, Spike attempting to rape Buffy came out of nowhere. This isn’t a show that explored any really complicated relationship between vampires and consent (in The Vampire Diaries, for example, vampires have an ability called compulsion and compelling humans that they then have sex with is pretty normal and no one really blinks about it, human or vampire; it’s definitely still rape, but it’s not treated as anything particularly beyond the pale, because they’re vampires who can control the minds of their prey and don’t tend to consider the feelings of their food sources to be of any real importance), and while the vampires are hot and have sex, there’s never been any indication that they sexually assault humans in addition to feeding on them.

I think that specific scene in Seeing Red is the hardest to watch in the entire show. There’s really nothing like it in any other episode or with any other villain, and it has a tendency to sit in the back of the mind and sour feelings about Spike and Spuffy because it’s genuinely difficult to forget. I’m not sure if the intention was really to turn people off Spuffy (especially since he got his soul and came back in season 7 and Buffy forgave him and fell in love with him), but that was certainly the effect it had on a lot of people.

For me, personally, like I’ve said I don’t like the scene and I don’t think it was necessary, which is why I tend to ignore it as much as possible when I’m thinking about Spike and Buffy and their relationship. It’s a thing I know that happened, but I also know that I don’t think it was particularly fitting from a character perspective, and that makes it easy for me to file it away as sloppy writing and generally OOC, and move on. Again, I can definitely understand why some people can’t or don’t want to do that, but I also know that a lot of people continue to love Spike and Spuffy and I don’t think I’m alone in considering that moment to be OOC for him and generally try to ignore it in my meta and other analysis of the show.