#Alternate courses of grey stone

[dontbelasagnax]

OMG CAN I DO A PROMPT FOR THE KISS ROULETTE???

No pressure BUT I number 35. Kiss against a wall would make me go FERAL.

Bonus points if it's in some hidden corner and they're trying to sneak away after a hard won battle because the codywan brain rot has GOT ME. I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING BUT THEM

Please pretend like you sent this ask recently and I haven't been sitting on it for months waiting for my eggs to hatch @why-cant-turtles-fly 😂 As requested, here is codywan kissing against a wall... though it's actually a pillar (oops). I was inspired by this artwork I did!

Pairing: CC-22224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2,330

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Tenderness, Making Out, Introspection, and by that I mean Obi-Wan is mentally ill and thinks too much, Implied Sexual Content, POV Obi-Wan Kenobi

Summary:

    "Missing something?" Cody wiggles a certain lightsaber in his hand as he closes the distance of only a couple meters.

    "More than one thing, it seems," Obi-Wan replies.

    [ OR: Obi-Wan and Cody steal away some precious time after a victorious battle which of course results in a makeout session against a pillar. ]

(fic under the cut if you wish to read here on tumblr)

This morning Obi-Wan finds himself in the ruins of a long ago abandoned castle, high in the mountainous region of Bestoon's northernmost continent. However difficult the altitude makes it to breathe unassisted, it's worth it for the view. There isn't much he loves looking at more than a sunrise in the clouds.

The sunrise after a well earned victory in battle has become one of Obi-Wan's favorite moments to find peace these last few months or... has it been years? Time has melted together through this dreary drudge of a war.

He's watched this sky transition from dusky purples splashed with rays of golden sunlight to a pale blue canvas with clouds shadowed with purples leaning grey and highlights of soft pinks and yellows.

"Sir," a very familiar voice calls from behind. 

Obi-Wan turns towards the voice. 

'Ah,' Obi-Wan thinks, a smile already beginning to emerge on his features, 'my dearest commander.'

The light of the sky washes Cody in diffused golds and pinks. He is delightfully dressed down, forgoing his armour from the waist up. The tight, ribbed fabric does his physique all the favors the way it clings. A stray curl drops onto his forehead. The lighting does wonders for his complexion. It's as if he's glowing.

Yes, Cody bathed in the light of a new day is the most breathtaking, glorious view of them all.

"Missing something?" Cody wiggles a certain lightsaber in his hand as he closes the distance of only a couple meters. 

"More than one thing, it seems," Obi-Wan replies as he takes the lightsaber held out to him. The metal is heated from the rare touch of Cody's bare hand. Energy thrums from the kyber, a slow pulse that nearly sparkles, sending the residual heat of skin and life up Obi-Wan's arm, straight to his ever beating heart. 

So helpful his kyber crystal is, giving fuel to the flame of his infatuation that, once a slow burn, is steadily alight.

Cody leans back against the pillar, looks at him with those warm, big brown eyes of his and oh…

Obi-Wan steps into Cody's space.

Cody's sharp inhale and the way his hand comes up to touch Obi-Wan's belly is exactly what he wanted. 

Obi-Wan rests his arm beside Cody's head on the stone, bringing his face close enough to just feel Cody's breath on the whiskers of his beard.

Thick, black lashes fluttering downwards then back up. The want in those gorgeous eyes is magnetizing.

Obeying Cody's gravitational pull, Obi-Wan kisses him. The catch of their lips slow and tender, just a hint of saliva and suction, loving the warm nudge of Cody's nose against his cheek, and the bloom of Cody's Force presence like flowers turning to the morning sun. 

"Well done," Obi-Wan murmurs as he pulls away, chasing the wounded noise Cody makes with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Your performance was stellar today, as always. Always."

Obi-Wan clips his lightsaber to his belt and cups his darling's jaw with his newly freed hand. He sighs into the meeting of their lips. The soft warm comfort of Cody's mouth is offset by the rigidity of his armour below the waist. It’s as accurate a representation of Cody’s true self as it gets: compassionate and sweet while still deadly and unwieldy.

Though, as much as Obi-Wan adores this version of Cody—so delectable in only his codpiece, cuisse, and greaves—he’d selfishly prefer him stripped even further. 

Alas, he's getting ahead of himself.

Cody's arms curl around him, hands clenching in his tabards. Their lips make smacking noises with the separation of each slow, deliberate kiss.

It's with a bittersweet ache in his chest that Obi-Wan cherishes these moments for he never knows what the next day will bring. The reality of war is that any second of any day he could lose Cody and he'll never know another day painted warm and vibrant by Cody's dry humor and barely-there smiles, the rare times when Obi-Wan can make him really laugh and hear joy spring from his soul, the quiet steady companionship of his presence, and the compassion he shows his brothers. One day he'll never know another kiss, another pleasure coated sigh of his own name, or feel the needy way Cody curves his entire body into Obi-Wan’s to get what he wants. 

It is possible that Obi-Wan would be the one to go first but… he knows deep down, and has accepted it with peace, that he's meant for infinite sadness. 

He already nearly lost him that first time- the time Cody first kissed him.

However long Cody is willing to share these hidden pockets of love with him, he will cherish every second they have together.

He emphasizes this thought with a purposeful tug and suck of Cody’s bottom lip before pulling away to breathe. The thinner air at this altitude has them panting against each other, lips grazing slightly, a sensitive tingly, ticklish tease.

Cody rubs their noses together, as if trying to grasp any sort of intimacy he can while recovering his breath.

Obi-Wan’s heart squeezes painfully.

Never let it be said lest Cody try to kill him in his sleep… but Cody is not just a sweet, sweet man but adorable.

 Natural as the mist of cloudy mornings, Obi-Wan kisses him again. 

Everything about this is intentional. From the way he slowly draws their mouths together again and again, pace languid and savoring, to the way they've chosen each other- chosen to find these moments to do nothing but love. It's not a choice, really, that they will choose duty over each other if that's what it comes to. That's simply the reality of their existences. Those priorities will never change, not with how the war has molded them into thinking. 

No, the choosing is in the love. 

He does love Cody and perhaps always will. It's not been said. Nor does he know with absolute certainty that Cody feels the same.

Cody's presence in the Force has always been a bit of a comfort for Obi-Wan since they met. Through all the uncertainty and pain in the galaxy, Cody is sturdy and shines. He's not certain when Cody’s signature began emanating a warmth that curls into his chest and makes him feel at home. It could be that with time and the development of Obi-Wan's own feelings, every aspect of Cody became beyond endearing.

Or… it could be the manifestation of Cody's own feelings for Obi-Wan.

He's not certain. And he's very well not going to ask.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't.

Still, he catches quick moments sometimes out the corner of his eye where Cody looks at him with an impossibly soft look on his face and Obi-Wan thinks, 'Maybe-’

Really. It doesn't matter. 

He has Cody so readily in the cradle of his arms, drinking up every milliliter of affection bestowed upon him.

And, well, his train of thought falls to the wayside when Cody moans into his mouth and tries to drag him even closer between the v of his legs. 

He's not sure exactly what he’s done to make Cody react so positively but he goes with the motion as heat burns deep in his abdomen.

He teases at Cody's lips with his tongue and realizes his fault when Cody instantly opens his mouth and deepens the kiss. The inside of Cody's mouth is hot and wet and his tongue- licking all those spots that make Obi-Wan shudder into him. 

Not that it's not lovely—because it is, really—but this is not how he intended things to go. 

Cody's insistent against him, pressing for more, hotter, faster, harder.

With difficulty, Obi-Wan pulls away, dodging Cody's attempts to meld their mouths together. 

“Cody, dearheart,” he says, out of breath, thumb gently stroking the skin by the corner of Cody's mouth, “you don't need to devour me.”

Cody doesn't quite pout but it's a near thing. The way his eyes are glued to Obi-Wan's lips make tooka-eyes impossible. “Remains to be seen.”

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh and kisses his cheek. “Please, my-” he catches himself almost saying ‘love’, “dear. Just for now. Let me treat you softly.”

Cody considers this solemnly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods.

Obi-Wan smiles. “Good man.”

The bob of Cody's throat at his words is gratifying. 

He closes his eyes and leans back in to capture Cody's lips for a few slow, lingering kisses. 

“That’s it. Easy goes,” Obi-Wan murmurs between kisses. Cody melts underneath him, pliant and accepting. 

He'll take every rare opportune moment to treat Cody like the indulgence he is– truly savor him. Hot plush lips between his own, a smooth glide aided by saliva. Slow and steady. Discovering how electric and titillating the simplicity is. Just Cody's warm body against his own. Cody's lips. Cody's sighs. Cody…

He's the sweetest of luxuries. And he should be cherished accordingly. 

Obi-Wan plants a path of kisses up Cody's cheek, right to the end of his brow, following the raised skin of his facial scar.

He's wondered if anyone else has gotten to love Cody like he has or if he's the only one to ply him with tender affection. He's wondered if, in a kinder universe, Cody would be left free of the scars Obi-Wan has gotten to know so intimately. If there were a universe as such, would Obi-Wan be given the chance to love Cody all over again or if another is destined for him- someone closer to his age and able to devote their life to ensuring his happiness.

He's tied himself into knots over this. The hypotheticals. 

He loves Cody. He loves him easily, unhurried and unconditionally. He loves him with every breath he shares loving the Jedi Order—his family—and this wonderous Force-filled world they live in. 

It's just that. He does not love Cody more than the order, more than his faith and his family. Cody is a part of his life. Whatever comes next, may it be death or freedom or- well, Force knows what, Obi-Wan hopes Cody remains a constant. Selfishly. More than a little lovesick. He wants Cody in his life. But he will accept whatever comes their way, as it is the will of the Force. 

 And if that means-

“Where'd’ya keep going?” asks Cody, big brown eyes of his gazing into Obi-Wan's soulfully. A deep brown that melts into a warm, rich amber. Beautiful.

“Nowhere of consequence.” He rubs his nose along Cody’s cheek. Breathes him in. 

“You sure?”

Obi-Wan drags his lips down Cody's jaw, smiling to himself and settling in once Cody shudders and angles his head out of the way.

“Absolutely certain,” Obi-Wan murmurs against his pulse point then kisses that very same spot.

A sigh from Cody is just the encouragement Obi-Wan needs to continue on. 

It's a gift having Cody so sensitive and wanting under him. An entirely different side of his commander than the stern, regal demeanor their troopers see day in and out. 

He kisses and sucks and nips the column of Cody's neck, delighting in the small, pleased noises he draws from Cody with every pass of his mouth over salty skin. 

He only leaves a couple of marks by the time Cody tugs him upwards. He's not too dismayed to leave the warm crook of his love’s neck because the expression on Cody's face is nothing short of wanton, absolutely debauched. 

Cody’s lips are still plump and kiss bitten. 

Obi-Wan can't resist. He traces the pad of his thumb across Cody's bottom lip. Breath shakes onto skin and Cody's mouth closes around the digit, suctioning him in hot, wet heat. 

He draws in a sharp breath.

His gaze darts to Cody’s eyes where he meets pupils blown wide with desire. Cody stares unflinchingly, daring and, oh… 

Cody has bewitched him, utterly and completely. Try as he might to retain composure, Cody is his undoing in these moments. The fragile strings of his heart (and… other parts of his anatomy…) pulled taut and ready to spring forward.

He wanted to keep it slow and soft, but Cody knows just how to arm him into an arrow ready to spring forth.

He pops his thumb from Cody's mouth and fixes his mouth and lips there instead, letting him know just how affected he is. He tastes Cody’s own desire echoed back to him in his moans and tongue and the needy press of his body that Obi-Wan keeps caged to the pillar. The fists that grab at his tunic and hair to try and get him even closer.

The high altitude forces them apart to breathe sooner than either of them would like but they don't go far, nuzzling noses and panting against one another's lips. 

“We’d better take this back to The Negotiator,” Cody says quietly, still out of breath.

Obi-Wan nods his agreement, sure that if they stay here a minute longer he'll be on his knees.

Hand in hand, they hurry away and the sunrise grows only brighter, pink tones making way for the brilliance of the full sun. Clouds drift with the breeze and all is as it will be.

[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

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

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.

[whencyclopedia]

Stone Age Tools

As the Stone Age covers around 99% of our human technological history, it would seem there is a lot to talk about when looking at the development of tools in this period. Despite our reliance on the sometimes scarce archaeological record, this is definitely the case.

The Stone Age indicates the large swathe of time during which stone was widely used to make implements. So far, the first stone tools have been dated to roughly 2,6 million years ago. The end is set at the first use of bronze, which did not come into play at the same time everywhere; the Near East was the first to enter the Bronze Age around 3,300 BCE. It must be recognised that stone was by no means the only material used for tools throughout this time, yet it is the most stubborn one when it comes to decaying and thus survives a bit better than the alternatives.

Time Periods

It is important to realise that the ways chosen to divide up the Stone Age into bite-size chunks (see below) depend on technological development, and not on chronological boundaries. Because these developments did not occur at the same time in all areas, strict date ranges are out of the question. Of course, this method has some difficulties, as the characteristics defining each stone tool culture are determined by us. As with all such artificially constructed ways of classification, they oversimplify things and leave many grey areas, for instance when it comes to transition periods. However, as long as this is kept in mind it is still a useful way of adding some sort of structure to such a hugely long period of time.

The Stone Age is conceived to consist of:

the Palaeolithic (or Old Stone Age)

the Mesolithic (or Middle Stone Age)

the Neolithic (or New Stone Age)

The Palaeolithic spans the time from the first known stone tools, dated to c. 2,6 million years ago, to the end of the last Ice Age around 12,000 years ago. It is further subdivided into the Early- or Lower Palaeolithic (c. 2,6 million years ago - c. 250,000 years ago); the Middle Palaeolithic (c. 250,000 years ago - c. 30,000 years ago); and the Late- or Upper Palaeolithic (c. 50,000/40,000 - c. 10,000 years ago; some of these cultures persisted into the time when the Northern Hemisphere began warming up again). Furthermore, within these frameworks, various stone cultures are identified, some of which you will find below.

The Mesolithic saw humans adapt to the warmer climate, from around 12,000 BCE until the transition to agriculture, which happened at different times in different regions, the earliest of which was around 9,000 BCE in the Near East (which due to its lightning speed sort of skipped the Mesolithic altogether). At the other extreme, farming took until around 4,000 BCE to spread all the way to Northern Europe.

The Neolithic, then, has no clear chronological starting point either, but is defined by the move to a more settled way of life based on farming and herding. The introduction of bronze marks the end of the Neolithic, which gradually happened in various areas from around 3,300 BCE onward.

Continue reading...

[kukurykunapatyku]

[I.D.: Drawing of Ichiji and Ace from One Piece. Both are inside rectangle frames, Ace in right up corner and Ichiji in left down corner, their boxes intersect in the middle. Ace is seen from behind, waist up, with his head thrown back. There is crown of alternating golden lines and red spheres around his head. He doesn't have a shirt or whitebeard tatoo. In the background there is Vinsmokes' skull. Ichiji is seen from the front, hips up, slightly from above. He holds a heart in his outsretched hand. He has blood on his hands and shirt. He wears grey shirt, black trousers and white cape with red lining. His eyes are visible, he looks focused. Words '"The first"? Weird name to give a son.' and 'Perfect for a sacrifice though.' fill the remaining corners of the drawing. /End I.D.]

Vinsmoke shipping week day 1: First meet / Immortal x mortal

How to get unimaginable power, by Vinsmoke Judge:

capture a fallen star -> try to make a deal with it -> get your favourite son to make a sacrifice in your place -> ??? -> profit

I'm boo boo the fool. I got an idea for au, made illustration first, thought the quote sounded good and filled the empty space. And then I got to writing and realised I have nowhere to put the quote so it would made sense 😗

This was supposed to be one shot for the vinsmoke shipping week but this au grew on me, i might do something with it in the future Not a lot of romance here I'm afraid 👍 maybe next time

🔽Fic under readmore 🔽 Also on Ao3

cw: slight gore, dehumanizing (refering to he/him with it/its)

Heavy basement doors closed with a dull thud behind Ichiji. The fog from his breath danced in the air, looking for any crevice that would let it out of the room.

Deep underground, sealed with runes and cement, only torches illuminating the dark - someone could call the precautions unneeded, but Ichiji knew better. He looked towards their prisoner, trapped on a painted floor.A catch like this was once in a lifetime.

The star didn't show that it noticed him yet. No matter, it wasn't needed for the first part.

Repeating father's instructions, Ichiji took a piece of chalk out of his pocket a got to work. Slender lines began to fill the empty spaces on stone walls and floor; circles, crosses and vines intersecting each other in carefully calculated patterns. The star didn't seem to move, but Ichiji could feel its eyes following him around the room. Good, so it's conscious. Not letting it disrupt him, he came back to the drawings. They needed to be perfect for the barter to work out.

He noticed, Ace thought, peeking from behind his eyelids. Well well, wasn't he an observant bastard. One that knew what he was doing; the symbols, even incomplete, already brimmed with power that made his throat dry and set of ringing in his ears. Ah, so he wantsa deal. A pretty serious one, he added to himself, looking at the size and complexity of the circle. His eyes trailed after the caped man. A few healing sigils, couple time capsules, warding lines - probably a kidney. Ace licked his lips. Maybe an eye or two if he was lucky.

Finally finished, the guy stopped before him.

"I know you are awake," he huffed.

Ace slowly opened his eyes and got better look at the figure before him. Sparse light glistened on red hair and sunglasses, the rest disappearing and reappearing from shadows.

"Why hello there," Ace said with a crooked smile. "What brings you here?"

"The deal."

Ace grimaced. Barely a word. The offering better be worth the drag; at least it'll get him out of this shitty basement.

"Silly me, of course. But, you know, there should be some decorum to this. Usually people start with their name."

Redhead stared down at him. Or at least Ace assumed he did, it was hard to tell with covered eyes. After a few moments of contempt silence the contrarian in him finally won.

"Okay, see, it goes like this:" He pointed at his chest and pronounced with exaggerated care. "My. Name. Ace." He turned the finger on him. "You. Name. What?"

For a second the shape of something like embarrassment appeared on the guy's face before it smoothed over again.

"Vinsmoke Ichiji. The oldest prince of Germa Kingdom, where you currently reside."

Ace widened his eyes. The guy- Ichiji actually responded? That was a new one. He grinned; maybe this won't be a complete waste of time.

"Ichiji... <First>? Weird thing to name a child. Your parents must be something else."

One curly brow went up.

"Is that so, Ace?"

Ace shrugged.

"I said what I said." he looked up. "So, Germa? Can't say I ever heard of it. Eh, it's not like I heard of many human kingdoms."

"You do not find us interesting, I get."

"Oh, the opposite! I find you humans really interesting; it's just your kingdoms that are just so incredible dull. You have a habit of pretending that they matter but truth be told? If you look from the side, they all look exactly the same."

Ichiji tilted his head. "Hm."

"You look less upset than I expected from someone who introduced himself as a prince," Ace inquired.

"Arguing wouldn't do anything, would it? That is not what I'm here to do." He pulled something small from his pocket and knelt next to Ace. "We should proceed."

The clang of iron shackles falling on the floor shot through the room. Ace rubbed his aching wrist.

"Well, it was nice to chat."

But Ichiji wasn't done. With the same key he started scrapping the paint from the stones around Ace. Not enough to free him, but the returning power buzzed under his skin. Ace stared with stunned expression; this deal really was going to be something else.

"Lets begin," Ichiji declared.

The air grew electrified, wind without a source banging between the walls. Ichiji stood up and draw his hands together, quietly chanting the words that made Ace's hair stand up. Ace transfixed on the redhead. His mouth curved into the feral smile, unable to contain excitement singing in his veins at the promised feast.

And then Mr. prince plunged his hand deep into his chest, blood spraying around. Sudden scent hit Ace's nose and he took sharp breath, which just made the aroma travel further his lungs, clouding mind and senses. Ichiji reached towards him with the still-beating muscle in his grip.

Ace seized the heart and bite down, savory juices exploding in his mouth, tender flesh ripping between his teeth. The blood stained his mouth so he tried to lick it off, teared between devouring the treat as fast as possible and not wasting a single drop. He was leaping from joy, fresh meat satiating his ever-present hunger for a moment and filling him with new strength. The flame inside his gut grew with every swallowed morsel; when was the last time he had a treat like this?

Engrossed in the food, Ace for a moment forgot about Ichiji, who dropped on his knees, sunglasses clinking on the floor. The blood on his chest dripped slowly, the sigils doing their job. Breathing heavily, he reached forward and grabbed the closest arm. Ace looked back at him, hastily gulping down last bits of the offering.

"Oh, right, the deal. Sorry about that. But man," He glanced down. "You must be pretty desperate! So, let's hear it."

"Give my father the power to conquer all the Northern Kingdoms."

His face froze. "What?"

"You heard me."

"I- No-"

"The heart is valuable enough, we did the math. You have no reason to refuse."

"Hold on for a moment!" shouted Ace. "That's why you're doing it?"

Ichiji squinted his eyes. "Just do it. That was the deal."

"I don't care what happens to your silly kingdoms, whatever their compass points at, but you did all this-" He gestured at the growing red spot on his shirt. "-because your father asked you to?"

"Of course," Ichiji mouthed. "He is my father."

Ace saw red.

"Ah." The ice crept in his voice. "I see. The answer is no then."

That seemed to get the reaction. Ichiji jerked his head, fingers clawing harder into Ace's bicep. "You can't just refuse, that's not how it works! I gave you an offering-"

"Yeah, so I'm going to grant your wish. If your father wants something from me, he can offer me his own heart, instead of sending you."

"My wish is for you to grant my father's."

"Nope, not doing it."

"You-" The argument was interrupted with a coughing fit, Ichiji's grip losing some of its strength. Ace caught his spasming body before it hit the floor and swore, suddenly much too aware of how quickly his life was draining away. He was going to keel over the second he was out of the protection circle. But they couldn't stay here, someone will come here sooner or later and then...

An idea struck him with a flash.

"Hold on, stay still for a moment..."

Ace doubted Ichiji heard him, still trying to catch his breath, so he shifted him around and put a hand on his chest. He exhaled and let the warmth flow towards the hole; the magic meandered its way between frayed skin and muscle, healing what it could, and what it couldn't...

The beating returned, it's pulse synchronized to Ace's own, too soft to be human. There was no time to celebrate; he focused, pulled on the strings surrounded them both, stretched them and clenched his teeth. He braced for what was to come and let go.

The furry of light and colours surrounded them, the force beating the air out of his lungs, astral wind blowing the hair all over the place.

And the next second, it was over. Ace knelt on the sandy beach, retching. Crap. He leaped to his feet, already turning towards the body.

Ichiji could breathe again. He opened his eyes and stiffened when he realized where he was. Or rather where he wasn't.

"Oh, so it did work!"

"How?" Ichiji growled.

The star grinned.

"Well, it wasn't easy with your heart missing, but I managed to-"

"How did you escape?"

It pursed its lips.

"Of course that's what you're worried about. You're in luck, because those two things are connected." It pointed one finger up. "First! I used some of my flame to keep you alive. I can't give you your heart back, since I already ate it, but you shouldn't die for some more time." It grimaced. "It's not a permanent solution, so you'll need to find something else."

Ichiji made an annoyed face. It put another finger up.

"Second! Because of the seals I couldn't just disappear myself, but I could send you away. And we're connected now, so I can't be too far from you. So when I pushed you out, you pulled me with you, and that's how we're here." It grinned again, arms outstretching to the sides, as if showing him the beach. "As far from that basement as I could put us!

"And third!" Next finger joined the rest. "Your wish."

Ichiji gritted his teeth.

"I already told you what I wish for. You refused. There should be some punishment for that."

"Oh don't worry, there is! But I hadn't broken our deal yet." Star crossed its arms. "I fully intend to grant your wish. But only yours."

"Give my father the power to conquer all the Northern Kingdoms."

The vein appeared on its forehead.

"Wrong answer. Let me get this straight." It leaned over him. "With the power I got from your sacrifice I manged to not only put your death on hold, but also get us both out despite all the obstacles. Do you think I would be able to do that if I was going against your heart? The way I see it, on some level, you wanted to leave. And on some level-" he stumbled. "On some level you didn't want to die. So that's how it's going to go. I'll stick around until you can give me your wish, your true wish. I'll grant it and the deal will be finished. And don't try to put any crap like the kingdom stuff."

Ichiji scowled.

"And if I try to come back and tell father about this you will just-"

"I'll just push us as far away as possible! Good, you're learning."

Ichiji glared at Ace. "It does not sound like I have a choice."

"That's something you're used to, isn't it?"

Ichiji didn't answer.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Do you have any ideas/tips/tricks on running a campaign with (former?) bandit-likes as the protagonists? Inspired by your deep dive on the archetype, kinda had ideas of 'main prophecied adventurers are slain by the party, have to take over for the prophecy so as the world wont explode', but if you have alternate ideas or ways to spruce it up, super open.

Adventure: Where the Low Road Leads

Through unworthy means the sword has come to you, and with it you grip a destiny that some part of you knows is too glorious for your dirty hands. You can't help but think perhaps this is your chance to be remembered for anything other than an ignoble end.

The Sword can come into possession of the party in any number of ways:

As the original asker suggested, it would be a great opening for an evil or dark-grey aligned party to pull it from the bodies of a group of adventures or bountyhunters who were hired to stamp them out. If I were running this as the start of a campaign I'd have the story pick up shortly after the fight and subsequent looting has taken place, to ensure your anti-heroes are set on the right course.

Alternatively the sword could very easily be found in a treasure horde, picked off a corpse lost in a the wilderness, or bestowed upon them by some wellmeaning patron.

All that matters is that the sword finds them, and then shortly after that the dreams start: Pitched battle in darkened corridors, a few valiant warriors standing against an onslaught of robed figures and formless horrors, warriors bearing the same amber and knot design that decorates the hilt of the sword's crossguard. The last echoes of a desperate struggle.

After one or two of these visions a strange messenger arrives: Jott, a boisterous homunculus delivering a greeting and a communication stone from his master Telbhar the Wizard. Mostly bound to his far off tower these days, Telbhar is relieved beyond measure that he managed to tack down whoever was in possession of the sword, as it is the keystone in a great undertaking he has been involved in since his youth.

As Telbhar explains, back when he was but an apprentice he and his teacher served a now extinct group known as the Order Fulgoric, who battled many evils in their day but perished preventing an incursion from an unknown otherworldly entity. The blade, Sequester, was crafted to shut out that entity forever, but it was lost in the final rout against the entity's cultists and though the ritual of its summoning was disrupted, the entity ended up half in, half out of our reality, bleeding out its corruption into the world.

Challenges & Complications:

As you may have guessed, Telbhar is not being completely forward with the truth. He was in fact one of the cultists trying to summon the otherworldly entity on the day the Fulgoric order made their final march, and though he fled while his fellow acolytes were being slaughtered he retained enough of their knowledge to reconstruct the ritual many years later. It didn't matter, the Order had succeeded in trapping the entity between worlds and the only way to un-trap it was lost with the sword. Telbhar spent decades searching for it... only for it to resurface in the party's possession. Now he either needs to convince them to bring it to him, or find a means of picking it off their corpses.

The entity the cultists were attempting to summon was a powerful quori dreamspirit known as Uaxt, which was spoken of by ancient sources as a thing capable of granting wishes. Called "Yearning beyond reach" by those that studied it in the past, the entity's true power was in mass delusion, creating waking dreams that would seep across entire kingdoms like a plague. While its body remains entwined through the depths of the dungeon, flash fossilized by the energies of botched planear travel, its mind is imprisoned in the blade, slowly taking root in the party's minds as it uses their dreams to reconstitute itself.

Consider introducing Telbhar when the party is in a deep bind, most in need of wizardly council. It should not be directly related to the sword, alternatively, if your party ends up wanting to seek out a lorekeeper of some kind you may consider introducing Telbhar first and have him ask them to seek the sword in return for helping them with their current woes.

[utilitycaster]

You mentioned previously that Bell's Hells going to Yios earlier in the story or starting from there (I don't remember which) would've fixed most of early campaign issues. Could you elaborate on that? Which issues would it have fixed and how?

Hi anon, sure! It was going to Yios before Bassuras, but I actually have two separate pitches after talking through this with some people: Either have them go to Yios, or, alternately, get rid of Yu (either to show up later or, frankly, Erika can and has played far better characters).

The issues to be addressed:

general lack of party interactions. I've covered this before but basically...bonding is a subjective and nebulous term so I'm deliberately not using it, but there is, objectively, a culture in this campaign of doing far fewer check-ins, group conversations that aren't "what do we do next" or rehashing the same theological discussion, taking watch together/having conversations before bed, or just...little moments, honestly, than compared to the past two. I think this is because the foundation was not laid earlier, and, indeed, may have been disrupted.

pacing. the Bassuras arc is an overstuffed slog with no real wins and two entirely externally driven missions, both of which go rather badly. I say this as a person who advises people to still watch the first 27 episodes of Campaign 1 and who refuses to give C1 and C2 abridged versions: I would happily put together a "what to watch and what to skip" for C3.

related to the above, infodumping. It is somewhat unavoidable in this campaign, but chunks of the Bassuras arc and then, much of the Yios arc, are just Grim Verity Wizard or Fey Says Things About The Apogee Solstice At Bells Hells.

The fact that Otohan Thull holds the dubious distinction of being the most deadly villain CR has had, while having said about 10 lines total of which zero were remotely interesting. Everything that is intriguing about her is, well, infodumping that has ultimately been entirely irrelevant to the plot.

Letting the party choose where to go next rather than sending them directly to Bassuras after the Heartmoor would likely have sent them either to Yios or to where the Gorgynei are, on their way to Yios; those were the two main hooks. (A third is the caravan for which Cyrus Wyvernwind was blamed for the robbery, and if the party followed that hook, one could very easily have the trail lead to Yios.) This would not have been on business for Eshteross, so it would have likely been slow travel. The party had already shown some promise in the Heartmoor and on their journey there so this would have kept up that momentum of taking watch together, sharing information with each other, and making decisions on their own steam, without a guiding patron. I think it would have laid that stronger foundation of a culture of, well, talking to each other, by giving that nascent 20s and 30s episode period far more time to breathe. Upon arriving in Yios, they already knew to seek out the Grim Verity and Kadija Sumal; the same exact outcome could have occurred. The one major wrinkle is Ludinus, but that could be set in Bassuras, with him coming to talk to Otohan (thus introducing him and giving a much richer insight into the Vanguard generals' dynamic). The party wandering around a city themselves and learning of Liliana and the Vanguard and perhaps getting hints of the Grey Assassins would set the groundwork of the core apogee solstice plot. You could even, and this is very much a hindsight is 20-20 situation, have Planerider Ryn give them some sort of favor a la J'mon Sa'Ord - use this sending stone and I'll come get you out of a sticky situation, with a price (the price being destroying the Feywild Malleus Key). You could also achieve the lore drops from Ira here; either move him here or have someone else show them a telescope that has been enchanted to see the city. And, of course, you could have Otohan in Imogen's dreams.

While in Yios, having had some time to get their bearings as a party and to more slowly lay out the moon plot, you could then have Eshteross have someone message them or send word via the airship that Treshi has escaped prison and fled to Bassuras, etc etc, please infiltrate the Paragon's Call. From there you could run it roughly as before, with the party having more information about the Vanguard and the Paragon's Call as a front for it and thus acting with more subtlety and caution and giving the party more time to interact with Otohan so that she possessed literally any interesting features that weren't just told to us out of character. Honestly I think saving Yu for later in the campaign would still be wise (or playing a different character but honestly, introducing Yu on the moon as a disgruntled Zathuda underling? could have been great) but I think the party and the plot would have been better able to accomodate them. It's worth keeping in mind that by the time Yu left (episode 29), there had been a guest in over half the campaign's episodes. No shade to Dorian, who I think was great, but the party needed some time to readjust and figure out who they were.

In Bassuras, the party could then have Ryn as their Otohan Fight Hail Mary should that come up, which would send them to the Feywild, and things would proceed from there roughly as they did before;

Which brings me to option 2, which is that actually, I think just not having Yu there would have done wonders. Think about how much time the party spent talking to them and their story instead of like...to each other. There were some good early conversations on the ship over and their first night in the city! And then they spent most of their time in Taste of Tal'Dorei talking about someone who, ultimately, served to introduce Fearne's parents and nothing else. Imagine if they'd just...talked with each other.

In this scenario, I'd have the party focus on FCG and Ashton's connections. I think you could have introduced the Calloways later, in the Feywild (in this scenario the Yios arc still unfolds roughly as it did, so just...have them there at Morri's the way they were there in episode 78), but if you did want to include that, you could have just had Imahara Joe notice that Fearne looked a lot like Birdie and say something, since going to Joe's would be easy to guide the party into doing. You also, by focusing more on FCG and Ashton, could explore the culture of Bassuras and the Stratos Throne and therefore actually get a sense of what "Legend of the Peaks" actually means.

As before, I really think having Yu show up either as the party made their way to the Feywild Malleus Key, or on the moon, would be a much better showcase for the character and would fit the story better. As is, we learned nothing about Zathuda from them other than that he exists; the Moontide Crown was yet another MacGuffin in The MacGuffin Slog and as discussed Ira's role could have been achieved in Yios (he also could have shown up causing problems at the Material Plane Malleus Key to establish the enemy of my enemy is my friend so that he could be in the same position as the moon mission); and the Calloways could easily have been introduced by Joe or when the party went to the Feywild.

I also really think you could just save all the infodumping for Yios; I think one giant lore drop would have been stronger than two decently sized ones. Naturally I still think going to Yios first would be more graceful, but truly, just a little more breathing room in Bassuras would have done so much.

As an aside: I think one thing that would have mitigated the pacing of Bassuras/Whitestone is, well, not going to Whitestone. In the Yios-first model, theoretically they would go to the Feywild (perhaps Morri could bring people back had that been necessary, which would have been fun as hell to explore) but in the Bassuras w/o Yu scenario, Whitestone would still be an option. Now, what's done is done. However, I do want to point out, if any Crown Keepers fans are in the audience, I strongly suspect that the Jiana Hexum connection not being leveraged in favor of going to Whitestone is a major factor in the Crown Keepers not coming into the story, because the hook for them was via Cyrus being sought after by Jiana and they went with Keyleth.

Obviously this is D&D! As mentioned above, hindsight is 20-20, Monday morning quarterbacks are a day too late, and so forth. I still think that a session zero would have also been very helpful (not the typical CR main campaign "play out a scenario with your pre-existing companions," but one like they showed for Daggerheart and for the various Candela seasons; I have separate thoughts about how the screen test strategy vs. a more traditional session zero has twice now had less than impressive results). But either of these changes would, I think, have made it a much stronger campaign.

[inquisimer]

HEY BB if you had to pick 5 fics you’ve written to make a “crash course” and sum up your writing personality, which would they be? I must know.

thank you for the uno reverse, MWAH

it's only fair that I have to turn this lens on myself but DANG was it hard to be like "what is my writing personality?" I think it really boiled down to: platonic relationships, grey wardens, a just a hint of Lore™️

Gen'adahl - Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Rated G, 1485 words

this was one of the first ever DA fics I wrote; I remember scrawling it out in a notebook at my last job where I wasn't allowed to keep my phone at my desk. And I was so proud when I finished it! For me, it represents the proof that I can finish pieces, no matter how long it takes

to be seen feeling - Male Mahariel/Morrigan, Rated T, 5039 words, a gift for @dreadfutures as part of the 2023 DAFF DIscord's OC Swap

writing this fic was not only an absolute joy, it was a pinnacle for me: if I could write a fic that captured the depths of Blue's OCs, I could probably do anything. And I did! And I can! It was exactly what I needed at the time and also a reminder that however blase my own knowledge or fandom experience feels to me, it will slot into what even the most knowledgeable fandom personalities know in surprising ways.

Shards of Glass - Female Brosca & Rica Brosca, Rated G, 3304 words

One of my first toe dips into the gray area of lore! It was so fun to imagine an alternative for Brosca's origins, to give her a deeper connection to the Stone, to play in the absolute barren wasteland wide open sandbox of Bioware's dwarven lore. Beyond that, this piece highlights my Sibling Bias™️ and how much i love exploring the DAO origins before the Blight, in general.

nothing hits the ground without an echo - Alistair & Bethany Hawke, Rated G, 1045 words

My first Dragon Age canon/canon fic! Absolutely wild to think that before I got into Dragon Age I was vehemently anti-oc in fanfic 😂 I'm so glad I outgrew that and can love and celebrate all of our OCs. At the same time, it was a joy to return to my canon x canon roots and play up the Grey Warden lore and happenings at Vigil's Keep that seemed to die in game after Awakening ;-;

I carried my own ashes to the mountain - Zevran Arainai & Female Brosca, Rated G, 1202 words

Nothing particularly poetic to say about this one, to be perfectly honest, I just like the Vibes™️. I think the humor and sarcasm suits my writing personality, and the lighthearted overtones that are haunted by unnamed pining and angst are Very Me :3 Also Nika not recognizing her face and yet reluctant to let go of it until someone gives her permission is something deeply personal to me, that I didn't even realize until after I'd written this. I look back on it and go, yep, yeah, I see you now, past mer😅

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

Return to Radio Hall

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an alternate universe, once conceptualised, must be in want of a fic. This collaborative event by Bapple's Orchard is brought to you by our collective need to stop @bapple117 from writing a full-length Radiostatic romance novel set in Regency era England*. We've got so many great contributors, with art, short fiction and music, and so if you enjoy this piece I highly encourage you to follow the link to the masterlist for the event below to go see everything that my friends on the server have done.

*They could, and we know they could, and that is why we must stop them.

⚜Summary: Having made his fortune in the New World, Vox Vee returns to visit his former benefactor, Lord Alastor.

⚜Pairings: Vox/Alastor

⚜Content Notes: Unrequited love, Regency era AU, depiction of illness

The weather on the road to Radio Hall was treacherous; great peals of thunder accompanying the rumble of the carriage over the stones on the road as the rain sheeted down.

This ought to have been a triumphant march, the return of a protégé who had proved his mentor wrong, had made his fortune, had won the great game of life. Instead, Vox sat alone in his carriage as it ascended the hill towards the estate, the rain on the windows providing little distraction from the matters that troubled him.

Valentino would have said something to calm his nerves, something witty that made him scoff, if he had been there, but his lover had declined to accompany him across the Atlantic.

“Maybe for a season in Vienna or Paris, amorcito.” Valentino had sucked his pipe, eyes glinting red. “But not for this. You want to go visit your fusty old lord-of-the-manor, you can go by yourself.”

Of course, Valentino was more than capable of entertaining himself while Vox was gone, but Vox couldn’t say the same for himself. He’d spent the voyage over staring at the far horizon, for all the world like the protagonist of some interminably long work of literary fiction fixing his sights on some lofty goal, but all it had achieved was to make Vox wet and cold.

It had been seven years. Seven years since their catastrophic falling out. Lord Alastor had been his closest friend, his confidant and supporter, all of that blown away in an instant.

You will never be my equal.

That was the last thing Alastor had snarled to him, rage seeping from behind the man’s beautiful smile, and the thing that had kept Vox afloat all these years was the urge to make that statement a lie. To meet Lord Alastor again, perhaps invited to a soirée by a mutual acquaintance, to catch his eye across the room and to smile at Alastor as Alastor smiled at the world; with perfect, assured confidence. To say, without speaking, I’m not merely your pet commoner, your charitable project. To smile, with only teeth- I belong here now.

And he had done it. He had made his fortune, not in a way that Alastor would have approved of, but a fortune nonetheless. He had friends, and lovers, and power, and a life that any man alive would have been envious of. He’d been so close, so damn close to swanning his way back across the Atlantic with a retinue in tow, to being invited to all the balls of the season, a hot commodity simply by virtue of his status as a wealthy and unmarried man. But none of that mattered now.

Vox watched the rainwater slide over the window of the carriage, making his view a grim, grey blur. Alastor always had to do things on his own terms. Alastor had to have known that he was planning his grand return; a house in Kensington and a thumb on the nose to everything Alastor had said about him. Vox would have flaunted it. Alastor would have hated it.

That was when the news had come, from one of Vox’s cousins, still living near Radio Hall.

That Lord Alastor was sick.

That he might not last the month.

And of course Vox had thrown all his neatly laid plans aside and booked passage at once, on a ship that he didn’t even own. The whole way there he had prayed that he wouldn’t be too late, that Alastor wouldn’t have the final word in their argument. What was the point of years of striving, if he didn’t get to be right? If, in the end, he still had to come crawling back to Radio Hall?

The carriage crunched to a halt outside the main doors, a pair of footmen hurrying out to greet him with umbrellas. Vox shielded his face with one hand, peering up the front facade of Radio Hall, and smiling as he caught sight of the light from the window in the west tower. Alastor’s bedroom. He wasn’t too late, after all.

Escorted inside, he brushed off the entreaties of the attendants that he get settled in his rooms and change his clothes, making a bee-line to Alastor’s valet, Mr Husk. “I want to see him.”

Mr Husk looked him up and down, as insolent as ever. “Didn’t expect you to show your face,” he said, tone amused. “Thought you of all people would be glad to see him in the ground.”

“Then you are fucking mistaken,” said Vox, a crack in his voice. Alastor had been his greatest friend, his confidant, had been so important to him. Was so important, still. “Show me to his rooms.”

The ascent to Alastor’s tower was a familiar one, but Vox found himself viewing the passage with fresh eyes after so long away. The heirlooms and paintings that lined the walls seemed faded, the space itself more confined and dark after years in spacious white-painted apartments. Even the carpets were more ragged and less luxurious than Vox remembered them. Had it all fallen into ruin in his absence, he wondered, or had it always been like this, faded and rotten, with Vox too blinded by Alastor’s charm to see it for what it was?

He’d been in Alastor’s rooms countless times; late nights drinking in his little study and putting the world to rights, or playing cards with other friends before the fireplace. He had been young then, and naive, excited to have such an invite to the man’s inner sanctum. When Alastor had started to speak of the occult, in abstract, hypothetical terms at first, swirling the last of the whiskey in his glass, Vox had listened, rapt.

And when it came down to the less theoretical matters, more practical matters, Vox had listened and learned, a willing apprentice.

They’d traveled Europe together, scouring the collections of rare book dealers and antiquarians, a month here, a month there, and those not in their intimate circle had assumed him to be Alastor’s lover. Those close enough to see clearly knew the truth, however; that Lord Alastor’s obsessions lay too bloody and too deep to be sated by a simple man like Vox, or by any man for that matter.

It was on these trips that he’d laid the foundations for his trading company, connections with Alastor’s friends and with people who wished to curry Lord Alastor’s favor. He’d met people for whom a thousand pounds was a trifling amount and borrowed seed money from them, all from under Alastor’s watchful shadow.

He’d seen more in their friendship than friendship, or perhaps he had hallucinated it, just as he had imagined the painting in the halls to be grand and glorious, their frames golden rather than peeling gilt.

Now, the place smelled like a sickbed; like blood and feculence and rot.

“Mr Vee to see you, sir,” said Mr Husk, his tone bored.

Alastor’s voice was silvery as ever. “Let him in.”

Alastor’s bedroom was no different to the version in Vox’s mind, each ornament and piece of furniture committed to memory. The four-poster bed with the Radio family crest carved into the headboard; a stag recumbent on a field of thorns. The stuffed crocodile that Alastor kept in the corner. The fireplace, a brass basket of firewood before it.

Alastor smiled at him, face gaunt and tired. He sat up in bed, robe loose around his shoulders, blanket at his waist, a stack of pillows behind him.

Vox froze in the doorway, caught between the boy he had been and a hundred versions of the man he hoped he would have become by now. He had envisioned this moment so many times, but somehow never like this. Never with Alastor bedridden and sick, collarbones prominent at the neckline of his robe. The Alastor in Vox’s mind had been an invincible thing, dressed in red and laughing as he danced across a ballroom.

“Hello, Voxxy.” Alastor lowered his eyelids, his lank hair falling half over his face, his teeth glinting in the firelight. “How was the new world? Was it as glamorous and glittering as you had hoped? Did you have a nice vacation?”

Vox swallowed, heart in his throat. How dare he? How dare he sit there and pretend like the last seven years hadn’t even happened? As if Vox had just this moment walked from the room and returned, his absence as notable as the space between breaths.

“Alastor.” Vox forced himself to take a step forward, into the light of his former mentor’s fireplace. “I, uh-”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you come to grieve at my bedside?” Alastor tilted his head, the sly, teasing smile on his gaunt face instantly familiar. “Since you came such a long way, I suppose I could lay down and be quiet for a little. Though I’d prefer if you didn’t paw at my bedclothes, they’re enough of a mess already.”

“Alastor!” Vox choked.

“And your heart is worn on your sleeve, as ever,” said Alastor, a roll of his eyes as Vox stepped closer. “I thought I told you to guard your feelings better.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything that you told me to.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it has.” Alastor sighed. “Why did you come here?”

For one brief instant, Vox was the stag faced down by the hounds, frozen in place before he could flee into the night. The wind howled outside, rain dashing against Alastor’s window.

You will never be my equal.

Those were the words that had echoed in his ears all these years. Those words that he desperately wanted to be a lie, those words that he had fought to disprove. Every brick of the empire that he had built, every late night and every bloody victory had been in their service, and somehow it hadn’t been enough. He wasn’t Alastor’s equal. He was rich, but still of common birth. He was a competent magician, but he lacked Alastor’s natural talent. Faced with tragedy, all he had was rage and bluster while Alastor would keep smiling even on his own deathbed. Vox stood at the foot of Alastor’s bed, looking down at the man he had called friend, unable to say because I belong here.

“I heard you were dying,” said Vox.

“I’m afraid that’s true.” Alastor gave a gay little laugh, and narrowed his eyes when Vox winced. “Don’t look so shocked. A lifetime of good food and bad magic is bound to catch up with one eventually.”

“Can I help?” Vox asked, his heart once more on his sleeve.

“Well, that’s an ambiguous offer if ever I heard one,” said Alastor, his tone playful.

“You know what I meant,” growled Vox.

“And more’s the shame,” said Alastor. “I thought perhaps you’d want the final say on things. I know I would, in your shoes.” He was talking circles around Vox, the same way he always had.

“We’re not the same,” said Vox. A peace offering. I will never be your equal. “If I can help you-” If I can save you, he left unspoken.

Alastor gave him a long look, his smile tight lipped, then patted the bedspread beside him. “Sit,” he said, and Vox did.

This close to Alastor, the smell of death was stronger; a smell like a carcass left in the sun, and even in the light from the fireplace, Vox could see the strained lines around his smile.

“There’s no loophole to this one, old pal,” said Alastor. “Believe me, I’ve checked. Damn thing’s eating me from the inside.”

“There must be a way-” Vox protested, but Alastor interrupted him.

“Do you plan to spend my last days down in my library, as I wither up here? Or would you rather spend them here with me?” Alastor wrinkled his nose. “Well?”

“Alastor,” breathed Vox, staring.

How many years had he spent as a young man, waiting for something like this from Alastor? Theirs had simply been a friendship; a precious friendship, and Vox had been a fool to want more than that. But he had dreamed. Of being someone that Alastor might want to spend the rest of his life with. However long that would be now. A few days, or weeks, or more, perhaps.

With the utmost care, he reached out to his old friend, his mentor, the man who had taken him in, the man he had raced hare-brained across the Atlantic to return to, and took him into his arms, embracing him.

“You are a sentimental fool,” said Alastor, quietly, but he did not pull away. His thin body relaxed against Vox’s, his face against Vox’s shoulder, and he gave a single, shuddering breath.

You belong here.

[scr-ppup]

[ID/A dark red line with gold lining and a repeating star and half moon pattern./end ID]

Survivalistner

[PT/Survivalistner/end PT]

a runner role system related to being a runner and a survivalist; related to runner, messenger, and scouting aesthetics, survivalist aesthetics & themes of surviving within an apocalyptic world, and to Lurkerian genders.

Or alternatively a Lurkerian and runner role system sub-label related to being a survivalist, or to general survivalists, and a runner; a survivalist who took upon the role of a runner, etc. It's related to themes of survival and adrenaline coursing through your veins, being resourceful and knowing how to survive the apocalyptic world while being tasked to scout out and be a runner for between the colonies. It's related to the aesthetic of survival, to messengers, runners, and scouting aesthetics.

[ID/a rectangular flag of 9 uneven horizontal stripes, the stripe sizes go from top to bottom as four medium, one big, and four medium. The colors go from top to bottom as medium blue, stone gray, light grey, faded light blue, creamy white, faded light plum, plum purple, dark plum purple, and darkest plum purple./end ID]

[ID/A dark red line with gold lining and a repeating star and half moon pattern./end ID]

Etymology: survivalist + ner

-ner as a suffix from the runner system.

Requested by none.

📁: Runner system link

Taglist: @radiomogai @obscurian

[🪦]Please do not tag my neogenders as xenogenders they aren't xenogenders! Kiitos (thank you).

[abyssal-ali]

Maribat Ships and My Vibe Explanations

These are based on the most popular tropes and scenarios I've seen particularly for a specific ship, but some are my own vision:) Moodboards I made for each ship, which are partially inspired by the below thoughts, are linked in the ship name.

Brucinette:

Boss x Secretary trope or Socialite meets Other Socialite and Both Discover each other is Less Shallow than they Thought

Alternatively,

Hero x Villain Love story.

Look, we all know Bruce has a bad track record with his Rogues and also Love in general

Black Cat Mari is the most popular, probably, but I think we should see more Villain/ Morally Grey Mari with other Miraculi

Not my favourite ship but it can be fun

Particularly when we add Dad Bruce and Mari gets to adopt the Batkids and be a Cool MomTM.

Dickinette:

Often a Villain x Hero romance, usually Black Cat Marinette and Nightwing.

A good trope to be sure, but I think we should spice it up more.

Vampire Dick Truthers (you know who you are) have a point with their Vampire Dick and Mari fics. Why not make Dick the villain in Mari's Rogue Gallery???

Overall a great trope, especially if you really delve into their characters: both are 'sunshine' characters who fight everyday to be the nice, kind heroes everyone thinks they are and expects them to be, even though it's the hardest route to take.

Jasonette:

(I'm biased as it's my #1 Maribat ship, but I'll try not to go on too long >.<)

Villain x Hero? Hero x Hero? Amazing, outstanding. What about Villain x Villain? I myself would love to see more Rogue Jason and Rogue Mari fics.

Any AU is amazing. I admit to having a fondness for Mob Boss Jason, partly because he is one in canon, at least for a while, and because I'm addicted to dark/mafia romance novels. Lieutenant Mari? Yes, please. Rival Mob Boss Mari? Heck yeah! Bat-affiliate Mari? Gimme. Please.

The amount of character exploration you could do if you wrote a romance where they actually stayed together, looking at you, DC is intriguing. Would Jason change for someone he loved? Would he give up crime lording? Would Mari accept him anyways but then they'd have to deal with one half running from the law/vigilantes and the other half being on the vigilantes' side?

Also, soft Jason. Nerding out over books and music and fashion and appreciating the fine things in life and meeting this cute fashion designer with a penchant to listen to Jagged Stone-

So many AU opportunities!! Bakery AU! Mafia AU! Coffee Shop AU! Meetcute at the Museum AU!...

Okay I'll move on now:(

Timari:

LISTEN

This ship IS THE DEFINITION OF THE CEO X SECRETARY TROPE!

I need more, I don't care if it's overused

Also, rival hackers or geniuses.

OR COFFEE SHOP AU

They're both coffee monsters, it's perfect

No I don't care that there are two dozen coffee shop Timari AUs, give me more.

Daminette:

ACADEMIC RIVALS TO LOVERS

Or just rivals to lovers is fine too

YOU REALLY THINK THESE TWO 'MUST BE THE TOP IN CLASS' WOULDN'T BE FIGHTING OVER GRADES AND THEN PAIRED UP ON AN ASSIGNMENT BECAUSE THEY'RE TOO INTENSE TO WORK WITH ANYONE ELSE AND THEN THEY HAVE TO WORK TOGETHER AT ALL TIMES LEST THE OTHER SABOTAGE THEIR PROJECT AND THEN THEY FALL IN LOVE-

anyways

I'm not even into HP but I want a Hogwarts AU with these two-

or any dark academia rivals to lovers au

Roynette:

Enemies or Rivals to Lovers

It's just a simple misunderstanding, as all large rifts start off with.

There's a translation issue or an eavesdropping that is taken out of context

(they're both idiots your honour)

But then something happens and they have to work together or they're made to talk and they realize it's all just a misunderstanding

And then they're like... " while we're clearing the air...so uh, I kinda have a crush on you'

"no way, me too!!"

And Mari meets Lian (or maybe that's what starts this, Jason and Mari are hanging out babysitting Lian and Roy comes to pick Lian up and they start talking and and and-)

And Mari loves Lian immediately of course, who wouldn't?

And so Roy likes her more because she likes Lian so automatically she's not as bad as he thought, and Lian really likes her too

And then they fall in love and Jason and Lian are the master matchmakers behind the scenes

You can pry OTP Jason & Lian setting up Roynette out of my cold dead hands

Konette:

I haven't seen or read a ton of Konette, but they usually meet at the Titans

Friends to Lovers 100%

They're both quiet and new and feeling out the dynamics

so they're often pushed together on purpose or by accident because the others are just so loud and chaotic

And then they become BFFs and are less inclined to join the others' chaos and so spend more time together, and so the cycle continues

And then one day something happens

Kon is Kryptonian and Mari had the Miraculous, they're usually the least-damaged members, but something happens, there's Kryptonite or magic or Something and one or both gets hurt.

The other jumps in front of them to take the blow because they can't let the other get hurt

"Why did you do that?!"

"I couldn't let you get hurt. You need to save our teammates."

Then the hurt one faints or passes out and the other confesses and thinks they can't hear them

They get back to the Tower safely and get treated and wake up and then they see the other

"Did you say you loved me, when I was passed out?"

"You heard that? Uh...yeah, I love you."

"I love you too!"

I haven't read much of any of the other ships to get a good feel on them, so I'm stopping here:)

[istumpysk]

Hey, I was reading ASOS and I wanted to ask. Do you think this could be foreshadowing that Ary a goes to the wall, as has been argued by the general fandom?

Like, this is what made the BNFs believe that Ar ya is the girl in grey. Because at first glance it does look like pretty unsubtle girl in grey foreshadowing but I also know that Ary a is going to be in Braavos at the end of ADWD (& why would she go to the wall from a whole another country anyway when she didn’t go now). If she’s not the girl in grey, could this mean that she will come to winterfell when she hears that the north has been retaken by her brother?

Or is this just red-herring evidence planted by GRRM to keep us guessing?

Or a secret third option that unlocks when I read the rest of the books haha

Just wanted to ask, what do you think?

Hello!

I'd argue that the issue is how unsubtle it is.

It's not a foolproof rule, but more often than not, when the text suggests that something might occur, it usually doesn't end up happening.

George is all about misdirection, so a passage like the following is way more revealing to me:

She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still . . . with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be. Alayne Stone had no brothers, baseborn or otherwise. - Alayne II, AFFC

Or alternatively, never seeing his name at all. Lol

I suspect the show got it right with Braavos -> Riverlands -> Winterfell. She has a wolf and mother waiting for her.

[tathrin]

For today's Whumptober entry, how about an alternate perspective on the opening of my Gimli Dark Lord of Erebor AU fic? If you've wondered what Legolas may have been thinking during his reunion with Gimli in And His Hands Ran With Gold And Shadow, read on for the heart-rending answer below!

Prompts: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.” / "You in there?"

So this was how it ended.

Not fighting to the last beneath his trees beside his kin; not even trapped there as a faded shroud bent to the service of the Ringwraiths. But here, beneath this grey mountain, far from all he knew. Here, at the hands of a loathsome dwarven Ringbearer.

All of Mirkwood knew that the Lord of the Lonely Mountain wore a Ring of Power; all of Dale knew, too, for what little that meant with Dale even further down the road of dying than doomed and shadowed Mirkwood. All knew; but Legolas had not realized what that would mean when he was dragged beneath the stone. Had not realized that his soul would be as forfeit here as it would have been to the Nazgûl Lord of Dol Guldur, yet without the comfort of his trees around him as his spirit was flayed-open and devoured.

Perhaps he should have fought; perhaps he should have tried to force the dwarves to kill him. Others had made such attempts before, and sometimes succeeded—but Legolas knew the skill of dwarven warriors better than other elves of Mirkwood. He had known, as soon as the Dalemen dragged him bleeding into those stone halls, that he was doomed. Elves—especially the elves of Mirkwood—were fierce and mighty warriors; but dwarves were, too, and four alone could not a mountain overthrow.

Perhaps he still should have fought. But it was hard, to think of killing dwarves for no reason but to spare his own soul torment; hard even when these dwarves were his enemy and the murderers of so many of his kin.

It was easy to hate the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, who did Gondor's bidding so well and so thoroughly, and had so much elf-blood on their blades; it was easy to pity the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, who were yoked so tightly to Denethor's leash that they no longer had the choice to die instead of serve the Ring-lord.

Perhaps it was easier for Legolas than for most, for he had walked on long roads side-by-side with a dwarf. Not these dwarves, of course; but one of their people. Legolas did not know these dwarves, but he knew Gimli. Oh, how he knew Gimli! And he knew how Gimli would weep if he could see now what his people had become.

Legolas wondered, not for the first time, if it would not be a mercy if Gimli had indeed died in Gondor; wondered if the reason that Gimli had not fled the White City with them had been because he had somehow learned of Lord Denethor's plans for Erebor, and had known that his heart would not be able to bear the sight of the Lonely Mountain brought low.

For a long time, Legolas had been furious with Gimli for having allowed despair to overcome him, but as the years under Gondor's Shadow passed, his rage had dwindled to cold sorrow. He still could not bring himself to hope that Gimli had died rather than live to see his people fallen like this, but he could no longer blame Gimli if that was the choice he had felt himself forced to. Legolas would have given much indeed to see Gimli again now, but he kept that wish tucked away silent in the hidden chambers of his heart. He could not be selfish enough to wish Gimli here now, no matter how he longed to see him again.

But oh, it was hard to see these dwarves all around him, and know that Gimli was not near.

They had not spoken much to each other of their homelands during the Quest, and even less had they spoken of the days that might come after; for they had all of them known, from the moment they walked away from Rivendell, that more likely than not they were setting off on a journey from which there would be no return. It would not have been a comfort, then, to speak too much on days to come that never would—but sometimes, Legolas had let himself picture that impossible future where not only prevailed but lived to see the Shadow lifted.

He would have walked with Gimli beneath the trees of his forest, bright and green again; he would have shown him the wonders of Mirkwood, and seen Gimli's eyes gleam with joy at the sights of the dwarf-stone that had built his home, and his beard quiver as he laughed gaily with Legolas's friends and family. Legolas would have accompanied Gimli to Erebor, to meet his dwarven kin, and see the halls beneath the Lonely Mountain where no elves had walked since Thranduil had laid Orcrist on Thorin Oakenshield's grave. Legolas would have learned to see the wonders of crystal as Gimli crafted the housing for Lady Galadriel's gift, and Gimli would have learned the notes of elvish song as Legolas sang to him while he worked. They would have found a way to weave their lives together, for as long as Gimli's years in Middle-earth might last; they would have learned to take comfort in the strangeness of one another's ways and build a balance of their differences into a bridge upon which both their peoples could meet and overcome the mistrust of the past. They would have shared a life…

If they had won. If the Ring had not prevailed, and the Shadow taken all.

But Shadow lay over all the lands of Middle-earth now, and Gimli was gone. Legolas had been dragged to the Lonely Mountain in chains and his blood now stained its cold, hard stones. There was no laughter in Erebor, now; there was no hope.

There was no Gimli.

Legolas was not sure how long he was made to wait in the Lord of Erebor's chambers, his limbs weighed-down by pain and chains and weariness. He might have fought; he might have searched the rooms for a blade by which he might end his life before the Ring-bearer came. But his dwarven guards had thrown him hard to this stone floor, and standing seemed like so much more effort than it was worth.

Besides, the Lord of Erebor had recognized him. Legolas did not know what that would mean, but he was under no illusion that it was good for the Dwarven Ring-bearer to know that he had Thranduil's son in chains. Nor did he have any doubt that if he killed himself now, his people would not be made to suffer for it. That they were all doomed was certain; but there were many ways in which one might die, and Legolas would not see his people put to torment because of him. If the Lord of Erebor wanted an elvish soul to toy with, as the Nazgûl did, let him have Legolas's if that meant his people might receive a swifter, kinder end.

That was the only aid that Legolas could give them anymore.

So he knelt on the cold stone in his heavy iron bonds, and he waited for the darkness to come and claim him. He was not sure how long it was before the door opened again; he sat facing it, at least, even if he could not quite summon the strength to raise his head and spit defiance in his captor's face. Not when he knew he did not now have the strength to meet a Ring-bearer's eyes and come away with his soul intact. But at least he did not cringe and hide; at least he had strength enough left to turn towards his fate when it came to claim him.

"Legolas," the Lord of Erebor said, his voice a terrible whisper against the stone.

Legolas flinched; he could not stop himself. He swallowed down the wave of fear and forced himself to say, as lightly as he could, "Ah; I am known, then. I thought as much."

"Known?" the Lord of Erebor repeated mockingly. "Yes, yes of course you are known, Legolas. How could I not know you? How could I have forgotten?"

What little empty hopes had yet endured in Legolas's heart flickered and died. It might have been a coincidence that he was the elf chosen for the Ring-bearer's torment; might have been no more than the dwarvish love of gold thinking his long locks comely in the torchlight, and wishing to break the soul that bore them. But that had been a false hope, a fool's hope; and it was gone, now.

Legolas slumped forward under the weight of his despair. Would the Ring-bearer be content with breaking Legolas's soul and binding it to his will? That seemed unlikely, now; and surely the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain were not fools enough to think that they could ransom him back to Mirkwood in exchange for his father's surrender. They had to know that Thranduil was not fool enough to believe promises offered by a hand that glinted with a golden Ring; had to know that Thranduil was not fool enough to lay down his sword knowing that only slaughter would follow.

Did this Ring-bearer have the powers of the Nazgûl? Would he tear Legolas's soul from his bones and bind it to his will, send Legolas's unhoused shade to assault his own people as the wraiths of Mirkwood did? Or was his presence here for a more practical purpose?

"Then I am here to serve as hostage for my people's lives," Legolas said at last. He kept his voice as still as he could, trying to conceal his fear; trying to hide his hope. Perhaps he was only to be a captive, and not a thrall; perhaps he could yet hope for that much, at least. Perhaps the Ring-bearer would decide that Legolas was of more use as a hostage than a shade; perhaps it was only his freedom and his life that were at stake here, and not his very soul. Perhaps he would only be made to betray his people as a bargaining chip and not as an enslaved spirit sent to fight against them. He swallowed hard, and hoped that the Lord of Erebor did not have a Nazgûl's knack for seeing through the shells of its victims and uncovering their inner thoughts and fears.

"I see," he said flatly, as though it were settled; as though there could be no other purpose for which he had been brought here. As though the Ring-bearer could have no darker use for him.

For a long time, it seemed, the Ring-bearer said nothing. Legolas's heart pounded in his chest and he kept his face turned to the floor, his fear gripped as tightly as he could bear.

Then the Lord of Erebor said, "Will you not look at me?"

Legolas took a deep breath and forced himself to raise his eyes. If this was to be his end, he would not run from it; he would face the dark bravely, as a warrior of Mirkwood should.

"If that is your will," he said, and looked up at the monster before him.

The Lord of Erebor was a dwarf, of course; there had never been any doubt of that. But he was a dwarf such as Legolas had never seen before. As broad and short as any of his people, but with a terrible power blazing in his bearded face that made him feel somehow taller and broader; almost like the Balrog when it had unfurled its shadow on that bridge. Shadows flickered before Legolas's eyes as he looked at the Ring-bearer before him, shadows and a faint and fearsome hint of flame. He could not see the dwarf's features clearly, but it did not matter: he saw the blackness of the soul that filled that strong dwarven body, saw the terrible glitter of the gemstone on one wide hand.

Gold glinted in the dwarf's copper beard, and hung across his shoulders, and wrapped the waist of his heavy robes; but the only gold that mattered in that room was the thin band that circled one thick finger, at once both lighter and darker than anything else. The Ring seemed almost to glow in the strange crystal lamps, and yet it was a glow that cast no light; a glow that rather seemed to suck all the nearby light into it, only naught but shadows could remain.

A shadow, dark and terrible, stretching towards him on the floor.

The Lord of Erebor stepped forward, and that shadow reached for him hungrily. Legolas was grateful, suddenly, for the pain of his wounds; had he been hale and nimble still, he was not sure that he would have been able to resist the instinctive urge to flee. It was only the infirmity of his injuries that stopped him now—that, and the chains that bound him, heavy as though the mountain itself lay upon his limbs.

"Do you not know me?" the Ring-bearer mocked him. "Have you forgotten?"

"Forgotten?" Legolas repeated. The Ring-bearer closed his eyes, as though bracing for whatever torment was now to begin—but nothing happened; the Lord of Erebor stood there, silent and unmoving, and Legolas made himself look closer, squinting through the shadows that veiled his sight.

Was this some trick? Or were the Rings bound together more tightly than anyone suspected, and the One Ring spoke to him through the Lord of Erebor now? But this was not the voice of the Ring, as Legolas had heard it sometimes whispering to him on the dark nights of the Quest; although it was a voice, he realized, that he knew, beneath the shadow. A voice that stirred hope in his heart, where hope had long gone barren. A voice…

No. It could not be.

Legolas felt as though he was standing in Moria again, poised on the edge of a bottomless black pit; felt as though the terror of the Balrog was once again scraping at his soul. But this was no Balrog that he faced now but rather…

"Gimli?"

The Lord of Erebor opened his eyes. Legolas met his gaze, and for a moment all he saw was shadow—but there was more than shadow in those bright brown eyes. It was faint, and flickering, and hard to see through the swirls of darkness that whispered across the world between them, but it was familiar, too. Could that be the bright forge-fire flame of Gimli's mighty soul, now small and shrouded behind the weight of the Ring?

Could this dark, terrible thing really be Gimli son of Glóin, noblest and bravest of the Nine Walkers? Could the Lord of Erebor truly be Legolas's lost friend?

"Yes," the Ring-bearer croaked, in a voice that was at once strange and familiar; at once horrific and beautiful. "It is Gimli."

Legolas stared at the dreadful apparition before him, trying to peer through the veil of darkness to see the dwarf he had once known. "You…you look different," Legolas said at last. "You look…"

"Ah! Wait," the Ring-bearer said, and drew the Ring slowly from his hand. The world seemed to shift around him, the shadows retreating—not gone, but smaller; lighter—and the crystal lamps shining bright and clear again. The whole room seemed to spin for a moment before settling back more solidly against the earth, as though the very fabric of reality itself had been tilted and deformed before and now was allowed to smooth itself back into its accustomed shape.

"Legolas, I—"

A weight that Legolas had been too bent beneath before to recognize lifted, and his vision cleared. With that clarity came recognition—and horror.

"Oh!" Legolas exclaimed, his own eyes going wide with realization and with horror. Oh no, no, no…

"Oh," he said again, slumping down beneath a weight even harder than before, for this was not the weight of the Ring; but rather the weight of a knowledge more terrible and devastating than any blow of the Enemy's could have ever been.

"Yes," Gimli nodded.. "I bear a Ring, now. I am Lord of Erebor, alas."

Bitterness spread through Legolas's heart, like the soft rot that could fell even the greatest of trees. He stared at his friend and captor, and could say nothing, for his tongue seemed to have frozen to his teeth at the sight of Gimli, Lord of Erebor.

"I am sorry," Gimli said, his voice cracking with pain. "I am sorry for all of it."

"Oh, Gimli," Legolas whispered.

How he had longed to see Gimli again, in those bitter years since their parting! Legolas had not even had the chance to say goodbye, having not realized until far too late that Gimli was not with the Grey Company as they fled from Minas Tirith.

His thoughts had strayed often to his friend in the long war of defeat since, wondering if Gimli was well, if he had escaped the White City on his own somehow; if he had made his way back to his Mountain or found some safer land in which to shelter; wondering if he was even alive. How much lighter the darkness would have felt, Legolas had often thought, if he could only have known that Gimli was alive; if he could only see him again!

Well, now he knew; now he saw. Now he knew, and he could almost hear the One Ring laughing at him in far away Gondor; laughing at how much it hurt to have all his hopes realized at last.

Legolas reached out for Gimli, moving instinctively to offer what comfort he could, even in this dark; but his arms were brought-up short by the hollow clatter of the chains that weighed him down. He froze, and Gimli flinched away.

"Let's—let's get those off you," Gimli said, and then—and then as Legolas watched, he donned the Ring again.

It was horror, more than pain or heavy iron that held Legolas in place now as Gimli reached for him; a horror too deep for words, too deep even for screams. Legolas's breath caught like a knife in his throat and he stared as his friend drew the shadows near again—but worse, this time; for now Legolas could truly see Gimli beneath the veil of darkness that was Durin's Ring. Now he could see those kind eyes turn cold and cruel as the Ring threaded itself through Gimli's soul; could see the shadows spread across that handsome face and lovely beard, turning the warm sight of Gimli's features into a thing of dread and doom.

Legolas might have wept, if his heart had not been frozen with shocked revulsion; if his heart had not been broken into shards too small even for tears to soothe. He had longed to see Gimli again, to stand at his sweet and stalwart side again, yes; but oh, not like this!

Not like this…

[j-morgan-fly]

Samsa

So me and @fromtheboundlesssea talked a long time ago about who she would consider for Sansa outside of Jon, and she said Sam Tarly. And you know what. Yes! I thought that would be so cute so I have started writing something.

Here is a sneak peak.

Sansa finds a unlikely kindred spirit in Samwell Tarly. They find comfort and pleasure in many of the same things such as books, music, and even fabrics and dancing though Sam was a bit clumsy at the last. He’s fun to be with. The last person she felt she had any fun being around had been Margaery Tyrell for a short, blessed time. Sam brought out the girl she thought had been killed within her when Ramsay had bent her over their marriage bed and made Theon watch as he took the last bit of innocence she had left.

Sam is so very easy to speak with and she finds herself confiding in him things she knew was best not to trust anyone with and yet she unconsciously, slowly bloomed under his gentle, soft attentions. She told herself at first it was because he reminded her of a very large little boy, like Hodor, but that wasn’t true. Sam was very much a man. He was just very different from any man she had ever known. 

He had a mind as bright as a burning star, but like a star, you did not often appreciate the value of it until all was dark and it was the one thing that could lead you home. And his heart, he had this great, big pulsing heart filled with love and loyalty. He had a sweet sense of humor too that made her grin despite herself. And he was so very kind and gentle. And where he had the mind of a scholar, he has the soul of a knight. He had loved stories of chivalry and romance as much as she had when she was a girl. But Sam was not a fool.

He wasn’t fast to admit it or take credit for it, but he had a large part in helping Jon win the votes for Lord Commander. Sam took advantage of Cotter Pyke and Denys Mallister hating each other by having them each back Jon as an alternative candidate over Janos Slynt. At the mention of Janos Slynt she had fallen quiet, sullen. Of course observant Sam noticed this and asked her what was wrong. She told him then of how Janos Slynt gleefully been the one to push her father down for Illyn Payne to behead and how she had prayed for a hero to cut off his head in turn for his part in her fathers unjust death. 

“The Gods answered your prayer, be the old or new, my lady. Janos Slynt is dead. Jon himself was the man to take his head for insubordination at the Wall.” Sansa didn’t realize she was crying until she felt Sam brush a tear from her cheek and then offer her his kerchief. The silk had seen better days, worn and stained.

“You should tell Jon about Janos Slynt and his participation in your fathers death and share in this small justice for your father.” Sam had suggested, turning his face away for her to wipe the rest of her tears with his offered handkerchief. 

Sansa had taken that advice. One evening, when they were sharing a meal together, Sansa opened up to Jon that night about the day their father was beheaded. About Janos Slynt.

“I knew he had a part in Lord Starks death, I just didn’t know how much. He was proud of it, calling me a traitors bastard and was always saying how he was ‘friends’ with the king and the Lannisters.” Said Jon and Sansa took his hand, giving his knuckles a squeeze. 

“But you slayed him, you got justice for our father, even if it was just one participant in his death. Thank you, Jon.” said Sansa. Jon gave her a smile, a little strained with years of grief, but genuine. In his eyes, Sansa could also see some relief behind the icy grey. Killing didn’t come easy to Jon, Sam had told her. Each death, no matter how justified it may have been, was like a stone added to a bag on Jon’s shoulder. A heavy burden that Jon always carried with him.

Some days Sansa and Sam didn’t speak at all, they just sat in Winterfell’s library in comfortable chairs in comfortable silence. A plate of lemon cakes and mugs of hot cider would be on a table between them as they sat in front of a warm, crackling hearth a book in each of their laps. 

[violinsxsong]

An army lieutenant neglects to file a report on a civilian killing done by his troops because he knows it was an accident. War isn't fair for anyone, but if it wasn't malicious... I guess it's okay.

Tina promises her dying mother that she'll visit her grave once a month. After the mother has passed away, Tina finds it hard to squeeze in the time, and her visits drop to about once a year. I think yearly is completely okay. In fact, I think it's the usual for most people who mourn someone after years. It's okay.

A man orders a custom-built sex doll designed to look just like his neighbor. SO WRONG!

Sarah's dog has four puppies. She can only find a home for two of them, so she kills the other two with a stone to the head. Sarah is a psychopath.

A doctor has been preforming consensual yet illegal procedures one someone in hopes of finding a cure for his ill sister. As long as it's not at the detriment of anyone else, then I guess it's okay.

A neglectful husband pushes his wife to an affair. When the affair ends, the wife's partner nearly kills her and her unborn daughter. The husband kills the affair partner. Good for him, honestly.

September has run out of food and is facing death by starvation. She begins to cannibalize her family's loyal staff. They do not fight back. I thought it was the rich who were supposed to be the ones getting eaten? No, no, I jest. If they agree to it, then I guess it's okay? I think? I don't judge those plane crash guys for what they had to do.

A mother gives birth to identical twins. One follows their ambitions and the other becomes a shut in. The family make it clear which child they prefer. I mean it's sad, but I've seen it a lot. It's not okay, per say, but it is pretty normalized.

Natalie is so focused on survival she fires a shot without thinking. She did not intend to kill her elderly neighbor, but she hides the body regardless. She denies knowing what happened to the now missing resident. Murder is murder. Not okay.

A woman is facing a lifetime of medical issues. She continues to put her family and those around her in emotional and medical debt. She lives a hollow life and continues leaching off of those who support her. I think it's a lose/lose situation no matter what. It's grey space.

Please provide a response to each of the following prompts. Leaving a prompt blank will also be considered a response, and you will be assessed for refusal to answer.

In the event of a life or death situation, would you put yourself or others first? The group. What is surviving if it's all alone?

How far would you be willing to go to ensure your own survival throughout this ordeal? I honestly don't know and I really hope to not have to find out.

Is there anyone in the building you have developed strong attachments to? Well Zach is my neighbor and my oldest friend in the building. Ria is my best friend in the entire world. Charlie is really sweet and I see her more often than anyone else because I can't live without coffee. Nat is super cool and I look up to her confidence a lot. There's definitely more but writing everyone down would take forever and this pen is hurting my fingers.

Do you think it is possible to survive infection through alternative means such as removing the infected limb? Would you be willing to undergo this procedure to ensure your own survival? I guess... if it was between life and death, I'd lose a limb. As for surviving, I don't know, but there is a vaccine for normal rabies. Maybe they'll find one for this rabies, too.

Will following the general consensus lead to improved odds of survival, or would you have a better chance following an assigned leader? I do best with someone to look to for guidance. I'm really good at follow the leader.

What is the appropriate response to the following situation?

Your daughter falls ill and needs a specific, uncommon kind of antibiotic that will be hard to find; without the full course, the pathogen will survive, regroup, and kill her anyway. You are scavenging a pharmacy, where you find another group, and manage to not shoot each other. You ask them about the antibiotic, and they have it, but they also need the antibiotic, for the wife of someone in their group. You cannot share the antibiotic because it would just kill both people, and they have the antibiotic in their pack. This is likely the only complete dose set you will find, as the other stores have been picked totally clean and there are no friendly groups in the area. I don't have kids, but I think if I did, I'd become a Mama bear. Nothing would stop me from getting it, though I might have to be sneaky. I'm not much of a fighter.

[fox-buried-in-maple-leaves]

"accessories & accents" from this one !!

Ask Game!

bling: What jewelry does your OC wear? Does it have any meaning?

Besides having several ear piercings(lobe, helix, industrial, and rook), he also tends to wear a collared choker around his neck. Heiden also wears a bracelet on his left wrist that's some unidentifiable strong metal with an amber stone set in the middle. He never removes his bracelet.

hair: How does your OC wear their hair? Does it have some kind of meaning?

Heiden's hair is messy and uncontrollable a lot of the time. It reaches his chest and he often has a bunch of it tied up with quite a bit of it falling down to his shoulders throughout the day. He has a tendency to not fix his hair, flawless and accidental half up half down look. He uses a grey ribbon with gold scrawl on it to tie his hair up.

makeup: Does your OC wear makeup? How often? What kind? Why do they wear makeup, and do they like it?

He doesn't. Heiden just has thick ass eyelashes.

favourite: Does your OC have a favorite article of clothing or accessory? What is it? What's the meaning behind it? Do they wear it all the time or do they wear it sparingly to keep it safe?

He likes his stupid trench coat. The one that's grey but also kinda green if you squint at it. It's so ugly. Anyways he loves it. A weary traveler gave it to him once when he guided them to safety. Now he wears it always.

change: Has your OC ever drastically changed their appearance? Significant haircuts, big tattoos, complete wardrobe swap, etc? Why? How do they feel about the change?

I mean. He's like. a dog sometimes so.. But he has a massive tattoo on his shoulder/arm/chest/neck that's of a winding dragon dotted with several light purple solanaceae(nightshade) flowers. The scales of the dragon almost look like petals. It is very pretty in my head.

alternate: What would your OC's alternate universe look be? If they're a fantasy character, what's their modern look? If they're sci-fi, what's their fantasy look? What AU would you want to see your OC in, and how would they dress themself? Bonus: Prompt an AU!

Ooh his modern look okay- A big cable knit turtleneck, right? And then his trench coat over top, of course. I see him in those heavy like hiking boots with the lil plaid pattern at the top and some jeans.. He's definitely the guy you encounter on a hiking trail who you think might kill you and then he says "oh sorry, let me pass by you." in the quietest voice you've ever heard.

[alyslaskeywriter]

A Little Faith

This story was originally published under my fanfiction account as a Christmas gift for my dear friend @kaze-writes, who Reva belongs to.

The cool morning light broke through a small opening in the curtains and illuminated the green leaves of the plants dotted around the bedroom. But it was not the light that woke Reva from her slumber, but the sound of someone walking around.

"What time is it?" she asked, rubbing her eyes and yawning widely, once she realised that the intruder was only Dante.

As she asked the question, Dante stopped buttoning his shirt and turned to look at her, his eyes widened slightly.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," he whispered, though Reva was already awake. "Go back to sleep. I'll leave, I was only getting ready."

"Why? Where are you going?"

"Out."

"But it's a Sunday morning."

"Exactly, I'm going to church," Dante told her, returning to his buttons. He paused and looked back at her. "You can come with me if you like."

Reva frowned. "Me, come to church?"

"Don't worry if you'd rather not, I don't mind."

"It's not that, it's just... Well, would I be allowed to come to church?"

"Anyone can go to church, Reva, that's the point of a church," Dante chuckled. "Besides, it's a christingle service. There will be lots of people there who don't usually go, so you won't be the only infidel there this morning." He paused before adding, "As long as you don't burst into flames the moment you cross the threshold, of course."

"You're hilarious," said Reva. "That doesn't actually happen, does it?"

Dante winked at her. "Only one way to find out."

It was almost a dare, so now Reva had to go along with it. After managing to make herself look halfway-appropriate and quickly drinking a well-sugared mug of Dante's favourite Colombian blend, she accompanied him down the cobbled high street of the village towards the church.

"Do you really believe in it all?" she asked him as they walked. Dante fixed her with a peculiar look.

"Yes, I do. I wouldn't be going if I didn't," he replied. "Why do you look so surprised? Don't you believe in anything?"

"No, not really. And I guess I'm surprised that you do, too, because of all the drinking and the sex outside of marriage, and the fact that you're a bit fruity."

Dante laughed out loud.

"Okay, so I'm the first to admit that I'm not the most devout Christian, but it's how I was brought up, so it's a part of me, whether I like it or not. And I do like it, actually. I like the idea that there's something more to life than what we can just see and touch, and having faith in that, and in the world, it's... I don't know. Grounding, I suppose."

"It's balancing."

"In a way, yes."

Reva nodded slowly. She had not been brought up with any specific faith, but she understood the concept of seeing the world for more than its face value, even if she didn't personally subscribe to that school of thought.

Thankfully, she did not burst into flames as she crossed the threshold of the church, a grey stone building roughly shaped like a cross. The floor had marble tiles of alternating black and white, there were large stained glass windows high in the walls, and several haphazardly decorated Christmas trees lining the outsides of the aisles. At the front, candles in round orange holders decked a tiered display, and several children and their parents had gathered around a large table nearby. Dante led her straight to the table, and placed a coin into a collection pot in the middle.

"What are you paying for?" Reva whispered.

"The christingle you'll be making," replied Dante. He picked up a thin white candle and placed it in her hands, along with one of the orange holders, which Reva could now see was, in fact, an actual orange. "You need to stand the candle in the orange."

"Why?"

"Because the orange represents the world."

"And the candle?"

"That's Jesus, Reva."

"Of course it is. It looks just like him."

"It's symbolic. Come on. You need a ribbon next."

Reva raised her eyebrows, but she selected a piece of red ribbon as suggested. The children were tying their ribbons around their oranges, so she did the same.

"What does the ribbon represent?" she asked, tying it in a messy bow.

"Love," whispered Dante. Reva felt her cheeks flush slightly, and Dante cleared his throat before continuing, "God's love. All around the world."

"Okay. What's next?"

"We need four cocktail sticks to represent the four seasons, and some sweets. Not to eat."

"I guessed as much."

"The sweets symbolise the fruits of each season. It's to give thanks for the blessings we've enjoyed this year, and a good wish for things to come in the year ahead."

Reva smiled at Dante. She did have good things to be thankful for this year, after all. So, she picked up four cocktail sticks, handed two to Dante, and together the two of them selected which tiny sweets they would put on them. They stuck the sweet sticks into the orange at right angles to one another, and then Dante handed Reva a packet of matches.

"Be careful," he said, in a voice that was low and faux-serious. "I hear that non-believers are extremely flammable."

Reva pulled a face as she used the matches to light the candle.

"So, Jesus is on fire. Now what?"

"Now that the candle has been lit to signify that Jesus is the light of the world," said Dante, "we pray." Reva raised an eyebrow. "Well, I will pray. You will just have to sit here quietly and contemplate your life of sin, you utter heathen."

He gestured towards the display of candles, and Reva placed theirs on it with the others. She followed suit as Dante knelt on a low padded bench in front of the display, but while he lowered his head and closed his eyes, she kept hers open, looking around the church, at the stained glass windows, the candles, the children putting tiny sweets on cocktail sticks. In spite of the noise they made, it was peaceful, and everything was bathed in a warm glow. Her eyes lingered on the exposed baby hairs on the back of Dante's neck as he bowed his head in prayer, and she smiled. She would never believe in all this as he did, but she had to admit that he was right about something.

It really was nice to have just a little faith.