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freelancearsonist · 3 months

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in shades of gray and candlelight

➔ Marcus Pike x fem!Reader - 7.2k

➔ Nothing good starts in a getaway car, but you sure do have fun delaying the inevitable.

➔ Rated MA for artist!reader my beloved (reader is able-bodied, basic female anatomy and feminine pronouns used, reader is described as having hair that is long enough to be put up but otherwise she’s a blank slate), unprotected p in v sex, cum swallowing, creampie, semi-public sex acts, oral (r + m receiving), handjobs, fingering, very light switchy dom/sub dynamics, a couple spanks, pet names (sweetheart, pretty girl, baby, honey), heavy praise kink, light size kink, consent king!marcus, just like the song it does not end happily [please let me know if i missed any at all :)]

➔ this is my (first 😈) submission to @beskarandblasters Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! i really did mean for this to be a drabble especially since i didn't know anything about marcus before receiving this prompt but he has my whole fucking heart and mind now 😩 thank you so much for the challenge lovely kel, and special thank u to my baby @fhatbhabie for betaing and screaming with me ily <3 (dividers by the amazing and talented @saradika-graphics)

You meet Marcus Pike on a Friday night and it’s obvious from the start that he’s going to change your life forever.

He looks a little disheveled when he enters the gallery–brown hair ruffled and standing up in places, tie loose, top shirt button undone. There’s an alluring five o’clock shadow burgeoning across his jaw and cheeks. He looks like he’s had a long day, and it’s only going to get longer. It’s all part of the plan, of course. He’s supposed to look like a standard blue collar worker, and he pulls it off with ease.

It’s the exhibition’s opening night, so it’s a little more packed than the gallery normally would be. It works in his favor–he’s able to collect a plastic cup of champagne from the refreshment table and blend seamlessly into the crowd.

His eyes are diligent as they scan the faces that come and go. He tries to commit them all to memory–the tall woman with the slight limp, the short guy wearing the Hawaiian patterned shirt. There’s dozens of people that pass by, and so many of them are forgettable. It’s exhibitions like these that make him dread undercover work.

The art on the walls isn’t exceptional, but it’s not bad. Nothing that seems worth stealing, that’s for sure. But his source is good, and his source said that this place was getting hit tonight. So he keeps his watchful eyes vigilant and pretends to sip the champagne in his hand.

Until he finds your exhibit.

There’s a depth to your art that he’s come to be familiar with–something he sees often in work of high value. Anyone can make abstract art, it’s as simple as flicking paint at a canvas. But few can charge it as emotionally as you have. To convey feeling and passion and heart through abstraction is a separate art form all its own, and it’s one you’ve mastered.

He’s seen original Rothko’s, Van Gogh’s, Kandinsky’s; he’s held their frames in his own two hands. But nothing’s ever made his breath hitch in his throat quite the way yours does.

He stands in front of a canvas simply labeled “Waves In Motion” with your name printed neatly underneath, brow creased with a concentration that seems a little unnecessary given the subject matter of the painting. It’s all shades of blue and violet, swirling together in a way that seems partly sensuous, partly violent. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and he takes a step closer. That’s when he notices it: a single dot of red paint right in the middle, a focal point of all the swirling cobalts. So small that he wouldn’t notice it if he wasn’t close; so small it could almost be interpreted as a mistake.

But he knows without having to ask that it’s not an answer. He wonders who that dot represents: you, the artist? Most likely.

Without meaning to, he smiles. It’s been a long time, years really, since a piece of art provoked such thought.

“Hi.”

The voice Marcus hears next to him is soft, dulcet. He doesn’t turn to the noise quickly–from the tone in that word alone he senses a hesitance, as if you’re a fawn that’s lost its mother and you’re bound to run if he makes any sudden movements.

And, truth be told, part of him thinks he might not be able to look away even if he tried right now. There’s something so beautiful about this painting–and underneath, something so ominous. There’s an air about the work that says he might unlock the secrets of the universe if he just keeps looking.

“Hi there.” He keeps his eyes trained on “Waves In Motion” as he responds–playing the game. He’s here to brush shoulders, after all; to be the right amount of forgettable yet memorable.

“This is my best, I think,” you murmur while taking a step closer. “It took the least time of all of them, surprisingly. But… I think when you know exactly what you’re trying to convey, it just comes to you easily.”

“These are yours?” There’s admiration in his eyes and an air of something akin to disbelief in his voice as he takes in the group of canvases proudly displayed on the plain white gallery walls.

And then he turns and lets himself take you in. More specifically the curling strand of hair that falls out of your updo to frame your face, the deeply plunging neckline of your dress, the way your calf muscles work even standing still in your high-heeled shoes. You’re a work of art in your own right; the most beautiful piece he’s seen in a long time.

“Yeah.” You duck your head–shyly, modestly–and he’s hooked. There’s one thing in this building that deserves awe and reverence more than your painting, and it’s you. “You know, you’re only the second person who’s come over tonight.”

“No way. They’re all just working their way back here,” he whispers before he can calculate a more articulate response.

But it works in his favor–your giggle is gorgeous, if a sound can be described that way. Sweet and syrupy, it seeps over him as if he’s standing under a cracked honeycomb. He hasn’t actually taken a drink of his champagne, and yet he can feel his nervous system tingling. You’re just that intoxicating.

“The gallery closes in half an hour,” you tell him–a little wistfully at that. “In my defense, I don’t have any family or friends in the area. I wasn’t really expecting anyone to show, not with so many other talented artists here.”

It seems so indignantly unfair to Marcus. That you’re shoved into the far back corner of the gallery, that people haven’t come in droves from all over the country to see your work.

“Where are you from?” He asks as his mind finally starts to clear from the haze it’s been in the past few minutes. With only half an hour left on the job, he allows himself a small sip of the drink that he’s been cradling all night.

“New York. This is actually only my second exhibition,” you explain, and you almost sound shy about it; as if you need to be embarrassed about being young and fresh-faced in the art industry, as if you aren’t the most talented artist Marcus has ever met in person.

He hums in response, eyes unconsciously dragging over you once more. “You came a long way for this.”

You smile so prettily up at him, and in that moment he sees something in your eyes. He can’t describe it–maybe it’s something akin to longing. Something incomplete, unexplored. It’s familiar; it’s the red dot from your painting. Solitary amidst the swirling, lost yet not hopeless.

And just like your painting, he finds himself wanting to get lost in your eyes.

“Well, it’s not every day a gallery wants to host you,” you say after another sip of your drink. “Plus, I’ve never been to Texas before, and I needed a change of scenery.”

There’s something so charming, so boyishly intoxicating about the smile he graces you with. “How are you liking it so far?”

“It’s hotter than I’m used to,” you say with a chuckle that he echoes. “And I haven’t been able to do any exploring yet, my flight only got in a couple hours before I had to be here.”

“That’s a shame,” he hums in a tone that reveals deeper meaning. “How long are you here for? Do you have any plans?”

“A week,” you murmur. Subconsciously he leans in closer, on the edge of his proverbial seat. To seal the deal, you lean in too. “And not a damned one.”

There’s no air between you and Marcus. You exist in a vacuum for this moment–unable to breathe, choking on anticipation. He’s so close, yet way too far away. You want to be consumed by him–for him to be swirling blue; and you, a single speck of red in his midst.

The moment shatters with an audible sound–a deep, penetrating voice. “He’s still not here, huh? I don’t think your boyfriend’s coming. If he even exists.” There’s something strange in the raspy voice that drawls these words–something strange enough to immediately put Marcus on the alert.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion into your vacuum, but you recover quickly. You have to, because this intrusive stranger is standing way too close and has way too much alcohol on his breath.

And then something strange happens–you worm your arm around Marcus’s waist and press yourself firmly into his side.

“Actually, he’s right here,” you say. There’s a quality to your voice that wasn’t there before when you were just talking to Marcus–it’s firm, clipped, bordering on hostile. “He just got held up at work. Isn’t that right, babe?”

Thankfully, Marcus has always been one to think quickly on his feet. He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer, unconsciously moving an inch or two in front of you. Protecting without really meaning to. “I’m sorry, honey. I got here as soon as I could.”

The man–burly and balding, probably a good twenty years older than you–scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

“Is there a problem here?” Marcus draws up to his full height–towering a good few inches over this strange intruder.

Whoever this guy is, he’s not completely stupid. He senses this isn’t going to be a fight he’ll win, so he backs off. “Not at all, man. Just didn’t want little miss standing here all alone the whole night.”

“Thanks,” you say with bitter reprehension. You wind even closer to Marcus–closer than this sudden farce demands. “But we’re fine now.”

He nods once–curt and unhappy, but seemingly satisfied that he’s not going to get what he wants. “Have a good night, ma’am. Sir.”

Marcus takes a mental inventory of the man as he storms off, committing his physical description and his outfit to memory. He doesn’t look like a casual art viewer, and he doesn’t look like a collector. He’s exactly the type that Marcus came here to look out for.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as you step out of Marcus’s personal space. “He’s been hovering all night, asking me who I’m going home with and shit.”

“That’s the other guy who came over to talk to you?” It brings a deep frown to his face, a crease forming between his brows. It certainly raises a red flag–if the guy has any eye for value, of course he would be drawn to your exhibit. And if he has an eye for value, he could be the guy Marcus came for.

“Yeah.” You rub the back of your neck awkwardly and avert your gaze, as if you should be embarrassed for drawing that guy’s attention. “It’s not been the greatest night.”

Marcus hates that. He hates that you came all this way to be let down, that this is only your second exhibition and you’ve had such a bad experience with it. More than anything, he hates that he can still see the spark in your eyes when you look up at him, and he can tell that it’s dimmed.

“Gimme just a minute.”

He doesn’t mean to be so abrupt, but he wants to make it quick. He hustles to the single-stall men’s room and tugs the radio out of his inside jacket pocket to call in the man’s description. Then he turns it off, tucks it back into its concealed pocket, and goes over to the sink.

He thought he looked perfect for the part he had to play when he left his house to come here. Now, he’s too disheveled. He wets his fingertips and tries to tame the mess on top of his head; he re-buttons his shirt and tightens his tie. He looks flustered, and he’s not even surprised by it. You’ve got his heart pounding with anticipation in a way he doesn’t think it ever has before.

Butterflies fluttering on in his stomach, he emerges from the restroom to resume his position by your side.

Except you’re not by your exhibit anymore, and the crowd has thinned considerably. He checks his watch and realizes there’s only five minutes before the gallery closes for the night. Maybe you’ve decided to cut your losses and leave early.

He hates the way his gut twists with disappointment, but then he reminds himself that he didn’t come here for you. He’s working, and he needs to stay vigilant. No distractions, no complications.

“You’re still here.”

There’s a wave of relief that washes over him as he hears your voice, and this time he’s not too timid to turn towards you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Thought I might’ve scared you off.” There’s a fresh cup of champagne in your hand and a hint of vulnerability in your voice, and it makes his heart pick up pace just the slightest bit. You duck your head–that shy, modest gesture again. “I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just done that without permission.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he tells you, more earnestly than he’s ever said anything in his life. “I didn’t mind at all, I swear. Just had to hit the head.”

You look so deeply into his eyes he almost wonders if you aren’t looking through him. But whatever you find, you must like it.

He clears his throat and tries to not show how thoroughly unraveled he is by your gaze. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Marcus.” You pause for a moment, and he can tell that there’s something else lingering on the tip of your tongue–so he remains silent in hopes of drawing it out.

“Do you have someone to go home to?”

There it is–the invitation he was both dreading and hoping for. He should really lie. He’s here on a job, after all–he’s supposed to avoid complications, and some instinct tells him you’re going to be much more than a simple distraction. But he’s told you the truth so far, and he doesn’t want to stop now.

“No. No, I don’t.”

This is everything that Marcus has never even considered doing. It’s late, it’s dark, it’s a little chilly for spring in Austin. The alley is grimey and drafty–your hair blows in the breeze even as you kneel down before him.

All he can do is stand there, dumbstruck with his back up against the rough brick wall, and stare down at you.

He’s still breathless from the way you’ve been kissing him–all heat and passion, fire and brimstone. Your hands ran through his hair and undid the effort he put in while in the bathroom, and his hands clutched your waist in a futile attempt to ground himself. Your lips are so soft; he thinks he could kiss you forever and never get tired of it. He was certainly planning on finding out, until you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“You… you don’t have to–”

But the way you look up at him through your lashes makes his throat close up around whatever protest he was going to try.

“I want to,” you assure him–more of a purr than a spoken statement.

And this really isn’t the place. He shouldn’t let you do this here. But he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t make him harden in his boring gray work slacks.

Marcus has never been about excitement. He’s always strayed to the comfortable and familiar–he falls into the sweet, caring companion role with grace and ease.

And tonight doesn’t have to be that different. If you’re going to suck his dick in a dark, dingey alley, he’ll let you. But he’s going to lay his jacket down on the ground so you don’t scrape up your knees first.

You keen at the thoughtful gesture and grace him with a grateful smile as your adept fingers work his belt open. He’s straining against the seam of his pants now, begging for the attention that your gaze promises him.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think you’re every bit as eager to get his trousers and boxers down as he is.

And Lord help him, he delights in the gasp you emit when his cock springs free from its confines.

“Fuck, Marcus.” Your lips actually part as you freeze for a moment, just taking him in. He’s thick, maybe an inch longer than average, swollen head peeking through uncut skin as if begging for your waiting mouth. He curves to the left just a little bit, and you can almost see his pulse thrumming through the prominent vein that runs along the length of him.

“S’not that impressive,” he mumbles, and you know that he knows that he’s full of shit.

Your fingers almost don’t wrap all the way around him, and suddenly you’re second-guessing this back alley stint, too. You want him in bed. You want him deep inside you, kissing your face as he fucks you, hands all over your body, thrusts hard yet slow. You want it languid, you want it desperate, you want it any way he’ll give it to you. You don’t want to blow him and say goodbye.

He calculates your hesitation as something other than pure unadulterated lust, and he lifts your chin gently with his index and middle fingers.

“Hey, we don’t have to–”

Again, you cut him off–this time, by dragging your tongue from the seam of his balls all the way along his length to swirl messily around his tip. You taste every heady inch of him and then moan at the salty foreshadowing on your tongue when you catch a droplet of precum leaking from his slit.

Your hand springs into action with a long, slow stroke along his cock, and then you sink your mouth around him and he moans. Without caution or pretense, like you’re not in an alley that anyone could walk down at any moment. It’s a little more high-pitched than he’d like for it to be and his head thumps back against the brick wall hard enough to hurt, and even still he’s never felt so overwhelmed with pleasure before in his life.

Your nose meets the neat patch of hair at his base and your free hand comes up to his hip, effectively pinning him against the wall when he tries to buck greedily even further into your mouth.

No one’s ever taken him so relentlessly before. You’re insistent, pressing onward even as you gag on his length, and it makes his balls tighten in a way he’s never felt before. It’s like you’re hungry for him; like you’re doing this more for your own pleasure than for his.

Marcus Pike has been a giver his whole life. Tonight, with you, he finally decides to take.

He’d be embarrassed about how fast he comes if you weren’t so eager for it. You moan around him and push yourself as deep as you can, throat working around him desperately not to choke on the size of him. Before he can warn you he’s spilling into your mouth, maybe more than he’s ever come before, thick and salty but undeniably sweet too. You allow yourself a moment to savor him as he pulses in your mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive head of him in a way that makes him shiver and whine.

He’s panting, nearly light-headed, when you finally pull off of him and press one last gentle kiss over his slit.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, because there’s nothing else to say.

You giggle, and he realizes with a strange wistfulness that he would do anything to keep this girl–a girl he’s just met, a girl who’s leaving to go back to her home on the other side of the country in just a week–smiling and laughing the way she is now.

“My hotel is only a couple blocks away,” you tell him as he helps you to your feet. “Would you like a nightcap?”

You pick up his jacket and dust the grime off it–it makes him chuckle. Everything about this encounter has flown in the face of what he’s used to.

He’s never felt so alive.

“I would love a nightcap.”

Your senses wake up slower than normal.

First it’s your eyes–they tune in on the bright mid-sunrise light streaming through the open balcony blinds on the far wall. It falls in slivers and shards over the rumpled white hotel-standard bedding–the second thing your senses tune into. Everything is so soft and light, but it’s a little cold too. Especially the other side of the bed; there’s no heat remaining there at all.

You push yourself up with a grunt and let the sheets fall away from your bare torso, tired eyes scanning around the room. You notice clothes scattered all over the floor while your ears wake up enough to hear water running in the bathroom, and you can’t help the involuntary smile that spreads over your face. He’s still here.

Marcus lets the too-hot water wash over him in scalding waves, muscles still a little sore after a long night tangled together with you.

He checked his phone first thing this morning, and the gallery was quiet all night. They think the suspect he radioed in was the guy they were looking for, but they weren’t able to apprehend him. The running theory is that he might’ve recognized Marcus and decided low-value art wasn’t worth the hassle, but one guess is as good as the next until they can bait and catch the guy.

It’s the weekend now, and Marcus is thanking his lucky stars. Not only does he have a successful mission to celebrate, but he has the most beautiful woman in the world to celebrate it with.

He emerges after a few minutes, wet hair messily scattered over his forehead and wide hips straining against a low-slung hotel towel. He’s a languid Saturday morning wet dream on two legs.

“G’morning,” he hums with a smile–he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dip down to hungrily take in your naked torso.

“Good morning, Marcus.”

He stalks towards you slowly, eyes darkening with each advancing step. It doesn’t take more than a second to realize he didn’t get his fill of your body last night, but you’re certainly not complaining.

He’s already starting to harden as he drops his towel and crawls over the foot of the bed, surging forward to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. If last night was desperation and passion, this morning is syrupy and sweet. He explores your mouth slowly, tongue sweeping between your lips and tracing every curve and ridge he can–almost like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

There are universes in the depths of his dark eyes. He may not say exactly what he’s thinking, but you can see it playing out in those baby browns of his. There’s something simmering underneath the surface–something more than just lust or desire.

Something dangerous.

You tug him closer and cup his face in your hands, enjoying the gentle scratch of morning stubble underneath your palms. He surges forward and presses you into the pillows as he settles himself comfortably between your spread legs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs through kisses scattered along the length of your jaw.

You know you probably look like you got run over by a bus–you toss and turn in your sleep, and it always leaves your hair a matted mess. And that’s not even mentioning the slight tremble in your thighs, left over from Marcus’s enthusiastic attention last night. But there’s so much sincerity in his voice; you don’t think he would waste his breath saying it if he didn’t mean it, and that fact alone makes your heart pound with desire.

There’s a syrupy slowness to the way he moves down your body, lips leaving behind heavy wet kisses as he works down your chest and over your stomach.

And it’s almost like he senses the protest working its way up your throat when you feel his hot breath on your thighs, because he looks up at you and there’s sternness in his gaze. You got your fill last night, and now it’s his turn.

“May I?” He looks up at you from the apex of your thighs with big, round puppy eyes that are impossible to refuse–so you nod eagerly and don’t even try.

If you were eager to have him in your mouth last night, he’s desperate.

There’s no hesitation, no build-up. It’s almost aggressive, the way he buries his face in your heat. He laps like a dog at a bowl, hips canting into the mattress involuntarily as your taste floods his mouth.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growls into your sopping cunt. “You taste incredible.”

You keen at the praise and card your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly at the damp, spiky strands when his tongue laves heavily over your sensitive clit.

Marcus’s greedy hands grip underneath your thighs and push them as far as you can comfortably spread them. You’re still so sensitive after at least three orgasms last night–you lost count after a point–and it serves to wind your nerves tighter than they’ve ever been wound before.

One hand slides to the junction of your thigh and his thumb comes to take over the pressure on your clit as his tongue plunges between your soaked folds. It’s even more overwhelming like this, and there’s not a thing in the world that you want to do more than let him have his fun. Especially when that hand and his tongue switch spots–his lips seal and suck around your clit while he presses two achingly thick fingers into your waiting entrance.

It actually makes your muscles tighten and your back rise off the bed as he curls his fingers just right to find that spot that makes you fall apart for him.

He can tell you’re getting close–he’s already so intune with the way your muscles twitch, the change of pitch in your moans. You whine and cry for him the tighter he winds the rubberband, and he’s eager to make it snap.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he says over the overwhelming flutter of his fingers scissoring and curling inside you. “Let me have it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut so tightly as pleasure wracks through your body that you can see constellations. Large hands come to pin your thighs open as his tongue keeps working, lapping and gliding against your cunt with ease as a wave of arousal gushes from your entrance.

You’ve never been so wet in your life, and he’s just getting started.

He trails open-mouthed kisses up your body as you catch your breath–his slick-soaked lips coat your skin with your own arousal as he works his way up to allow you a taste of yourself.

The first wet lick of his tongue into your mouth makes you moan. It’s not the first time you’ve tasted your own slick–you’ve had a moment or two of curiosity–but it’s never been quite as enjoyable as it is on his tongue. It pairs so perfectly with the minty tang of toothpaste left on his breath and makes you hungry for more.

He moves fluidly under your direction as you push him onto his back and roll to straddle his lap all in one graceful movement. It’s perfect like this–he doesn’t have to support his weight so he can run his big meaty hands all over every inch of you, and you can kiss him as deep as you want while you grind down on his aching length.

“Shit, baby,” he pants against your lips. Those aforementioned beefy palms grasp hard at your asscheeks to guide your hips, pulling you into a slow, long grind that bumps the head of his cock against your clit deliciously.

Your pulse thrums with desperation until you’re seeing white–no more teasing, no more preamble. You take his girth in your hand and give him a firm stroke; if you had a little more presence of mind, you might be embarrassed at how wet his dick is simply from grinding against you for a few seconds.

“Go ahead, baby, take it when you’re ready.”

He gasps at the first press of his cockhead against your entrance, head flopping back against the pillows as his hands squeeze your asscheeks with bruising force.

“Shit, you’re tight,” he murmurs, throat working around a thick gulp. “You can take it baby, I know you can. Did so good for me last night.”

You think you would honestly do anything he asks of you so long as he just keeps talking like this.

It takes a moment for you to work your way down his length–he’s so mouth-wateringly thick and the curve of his cock hits the most delicious spot inside you that you didn’t even know existed.

“Atta girl,” he praises breathlessly as your hips settle flush against his. “Just sit there for a minute. So pretty on my dick.”

God, he makes your entire body flush with heat. He turns your blood to molten lava with his words, lighting every inch of skin on fire. You’ve never felt a sensation like this–so overwhelming yet so intoxicating.

You start with slow movements as his hands trace up and down your sides sweetly–it’s more like you’re grinding on him than anything else. His thumbs rub abstract little patterns into your skin as his hands work up to your tits; when he finally takes them in the palms of his hands and squeezes all pretense of soft, sweet morning-after sex flies out the window.

You drop down hard on his cock and it nearly punches the wind out of him.

“Yes!” He growls darkly. His eyes flash with something dangerous–it’s the only warning you get before his hand slaps the meat of your ass and grabs a greedy handful. “Just like that baby, use my fuckin’ dick.”

And maybe, if he was someone else, you wouldn’t be nearly as eager to follow instructions. But with Marcus, you’re nothing if not obedient.

Last night was exploration and discovery–hours into the early morning spent learning each other’s bodies, finding what makes the other squirm and whine and beg. This morning is in perfect juxtaposition to that sweet, soft, probing sex–you know what drives each other crazy now, and you each use it to your advantage. Aggressively.

He surges up to suck a pert nipple into his mouth as you set a hard pace on him, long fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to leave marks. He lands another sharp smack to your ass when your thighs start to shake–a reward for using his cock exactly how he asked.

”M-Marcus—”

”I know, sweetheart,” he purrs through a guttural moan. He cants his hips up to meet your thrusts at just the right moment—he hits something so devastatingly pleasurable that your vision prickles white around the edges. “I know, it’s so much, isn’t it? It’s okay, you can let go. Come for me.”

There’s a condescending note to his voice that only makes you squeeze harder around his cock, and within seconds you’re hurtling uncontrollably into ecstasy.

He fucks you through the telltale fluttering of your cunt even when your hips stop moving; strong hands hold you in place and work you through the ebbing waves of pleasure that wrack through your entire body.

”M’so close, honey,” he grunts with a particularly sharp thrust upward. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw in his hand, forcing your eyes to meet his. “Where do you want me?”

”I-inside,” you gasp. “Come inside me, Marcus.”

He fills you as soon as he has your instruction—hard thrusts punctuated by breathy moans as he pumps you full of his release.

There’s a long, silent moment where Marcus pulls your bare chest tightly against his own and you pant into the crook of his neck while trying desperately to even-out your breathing. His fingertips dance across your skin-feather-light, soothing.

The sun is higher in the sky now and meets your eyes with blinding rays through the balcony shutters when they finally open again.

”That was amazing, honey,” he murmurs into the crown of your head. He’s caught his own breath now, but he doesn’t make any attempt to let you go. “How’re you so perfect?”

”M’not perfect,” you mumble into his shoulder; but even to your own ears, it sounds half-hearted. The truth is, he’s so earnestly honest that you believe him.

He hums his dissent with a kiss pressed to your hairline. ”You are to me.”

And you so desperately want to believe him that you don’t even try to argue.

You bask in this warm, lovely afterglow for a few moments longer before Marcus gently taps your hip. ”Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get cleaned up and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

You pull off of his softened cock with a whine and try not to get worked up all over again at the feeling of his cum leaking down your thighs. ”Th-there’s a free continental breakfast downstairs.”

”Oh, then I’ll definitely pick up the tab,” he jokes with a smirk—all you want to do is kiss his goofy, stupidly handsome face.

He pulls you into the bathroom and starts the water running to fill the tub—he’s never really been a bath guy, but your legs are a little too shaky to endure a shower. He’s so attentive—from running a damp cloth between your legs to helping lower you into the water. He doesn’t complain in the slightest when you catch his hand and ask him to join you; he just shuffles you forward and slides in behind you like it’s a casual act that he performs with every hookup.

It’s intimate. That’s really the only way to describe it. You sit between his spread legs, back to his chest, head rested back against his shoulder while his fingers ghost idle paths over your skin. You don’t talk; you don’t really need to. Somehow, you fit together like souls who have known each other for years. Like all you’ve been missing is each other.

You drift off in his arms as he traces soap over all the curves and ridge of your body, the steady beat of his heart thumping in your ear.

It breaks his heart a little bit to wake you—the fact that you’re so comfortable with him, that you trust him with such vulnerability, makes his head spin a little bit. But the water’s turning cold, and the last thing he wants is for you to come down sick or something.

He rouses you with gentle, feathery kisses scattered over your rosy-scented shoulders and neck.

”Mmm… what time is it?” You grumble, pressing your sleep-addled face further into the crook of his neck.

”Just after noon,” he whispers into your hair after glancing up at the clock on the wall.

He can feel the way your mouth shifts into a pout. “Shit. We missed breakfast.”

The adorable downward tilt of your frown as you lift your dad to look at him makes his heart flutter. “Let’s go out, then. The first farmer’s market of the season is going on downtown. I’m sure we can find something good for brunch.”

”Kinda sounds like you’re asking me on a date,” you hum with a slight smirk dancing at your lips.

”Maybe I am.” His tone is light, his meaning clear—he knows this goes beyond a one-night stand, and there’s no harm done if you’re not wanting to cross this boundary. He’d understand not wanting to get too serious about someone who lives thousands of miles away from your home, of course. He’d never blame you.

You give him your best appraising look, staring deep into those constellation-filled brown eyes. ”You’re not sick of me yet?”

”I have a feeling I couldn’t get sick of you if I tried.” There’s nothing but sincerity in his tone, in his eyes. He genuinely wants to spend time with you, even if there’s nowhere for this to really go.

You hum thoughtfully. “I do love farmer’s markets.”

You’re with Marcus more often than not over the course of the next week.

He takes you sightseeing to some of his favorite spots around Austin, brings you to his favorite restaurants, shows you his favorite movies. But he multitasks—while teaching you about himself, he learns as much as he can about you and picks activities he knows you’ll love, too.

He’s a pragmatist; he knows your time together is short, and he wants to make himself unforgettable. If he never sees you again, he wants you to think about him every once in a while and look back on this time fondly.

You spend your days while Marcus is at work painting or drawing or lingering around the gallery, and you fall asleep in his arms every night. With shades of gray moonlight and candlelight cast over your hotel room, it almost feels like this could go on forever.

He tells you to wear something nice before he picks you up on the last night–he wants to celebrate in style, which starts with reservations at an up-scale restaurant.

He’s so achingly handsome. He’s in a matching gray suit over a white button-up, top two buttons undone and no tie to be seen. His face bears the slightest five o’clock shadow and your eyes gravitate to the curve of his lips–the instant smile that takes over his face when those gorgeous brown eyes of his land on you.

If you never see him again, this is exactly how you want to remember him.

“Wow,” he whispers reverently. “You look amazing.”

It’s not the most impressive dress you own, but he looks at you like you’re wearing something worth millions–like you’re worth millions.

You lean up and kiss him, and everything feels right. His hands rest on your waist and it’s so easy to pretend that you won’t be on the other side of the country twenty-four hours from now.

The restaurant is beautiful. Dimly lit and romantic, tables spaced enough to give you some privacy. He takes your hand on top of the table and holds it the entire meal. The conversation is light and airy–you’re both stubbornly dancing around what really needs to be said.

Dessert is cleared and the wine bottle is empty by the time Marcus finally works up the courage to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“I don’t want you to go.”

You knew this would be coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. You avert your gaze, instead focusing on his large hand wrapped around yours and the windshield wiper motion of his thumb tracing back and forth over your palm. No one’s touch has ever sent such electric tingles through your nervous system the way his does.

You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all.

“Look, I…” He takes a deep breath and straightens his spine a little bit, hand leaving yours to gently cup your chin. He forces you to look him in the eyes as he breaks your heart. “I think this could really be something, if we gave it a shot.”

You haven’t lied to him yet, and you don’t plan to start now. “I… I think it could, too. If I didn’t have to go back.”

“Don’t go back then.” There’s a firmness to his voice, but it couldn’t be any more obvious that he’s begging if he actually got down on his knees. “Stay here with me. We’ll figure this out. Just… don’t go.”

And here–with his earnest eyes on yours and his gentle, loving touch on your skin–it’s easy to pretend that it’s that simple.

He takes you back to your hotel room and sheds you easily out of your dress. As cliche as it sounds, it’s not just sex this time. Things that it’s too early to say are buried deep within every kiss, every thrust. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and looks deeply into your eyes while he fills you and you’ve never felt so overwhelmingly connected.

The thud of his heartbeat is insistent in your ear as you come down from your high–so calming, so heartbreaking. You lay on his chest while his breathing evens out and soak up these last few moments of bliss. And then, once you’re sure he’s sound asleep, you carefully worm out of his grip. There’s one more thing you have to do before you go back to New York.

Loud, insistent ringing pulls Marcus from the depths of sleep. He tries to ignore it and go back to sleep, but now that his senses are alert, the sound in combination with bright Saturday morning sunlight won’t allow him the luxury. He presses his face deeper into the pillow that he’s somehow wound himself around in his sleep, but that damned ringing won’t stop.

He sits up slowly and tries to rub the sleep from his eyes–and that’s when he notices the empty sheets next to him. Your side of the bed is long cold, and he knows. Before he even sees the note on the dresser and your room key next to it, he knows you’re gone.

He finds his trousers discarded halfway between the bed and the door and pulls his blaring phone out of the pocket.

“The gallery got hit sometime early this morning. They took everything. Every goddamn piece. You need to get here now.”

His body moves on autopilot as he pulls yesterday’s clothes back on, fingers numb to all sensation as they work to button his shirt. This can’t be happening. It can’t be you.

He notices the note on the dresser as he’s threading his belt through the loops of his trousers, and his gut twists with a sickening sense of foreboding.

I really did fall for you, Marcus. But nothing good starts in a getaway car.

He’s not sure if you knew who he was the whole time and this whole thing was calculated, or if you just got lucky. He doesn’t want to believe you’re that cunning and cruel. He wants to believe that this is just a misunderstanding, that you’re out for ice or something and you’ll walk back through the door at any moment.

But you don’t.

The note is enough of a confession for him. He’ll have the power of the FBI on his side to find you–and he will find you. What he’ll do when he does, he’s not sure. He guesses he’ll know when he sees you.

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#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike one shot #marcus pike x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist one shot #cece writes

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wordstome · 5 months

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bucca's big masterlist of königs

My beloved @ghouljams has deferred to my expertise of König faces, which made me want to go through and pick my favorite ones. But then I went through my various fanart/könig tags and found so many unmasked König headcanons that I was like hey I should write these down and keep 'em somewhere so I can look at them whenever I'm having a bad day. So here we go!

The first few are my personal favorites, but otherwise they're in no particular order. Be sure to click through to the artists' posts and give them some love :> All artwork has their source embedded. (To the artists: sorry for the tag, I wanted to make it easy for people to click through and find you ;; If you'd like to be removed from this list, please let me know!)

tw for mild body horror and blood

@lettaniko

@floweryanarchy (special shoutout to that handsome-ass Roach. gyatdamn)

@crr0o

@konig-s-hood

@saintmisu

@kathy-ifnt

@no-u-hang-up

@emmaseesghosts (screenshot from tiktok)

clwmeowtan (on tiktok)

@valiants

@bluegiragi

@garbagegrave

@shkretart

@quozacheese

@eyygee

@mustasekittens

@papaver-decervicatus as drawn by @blut-s

@morthern

@cannedmuffins

@namedlunagoddess (this one has a special place in my heart because he looks so exceedingly normal [positive]. I saw this man at the grocery store last week.)

@loneghostwolf

@gghalcyon (please check out the post for this one, I love when people give König an extensive backstory)

@sixleggedboar

@itsnghi (this one is so goddamn cute I need to kiss him)

@yuivamponrest He's not dick-out in this one, but I still don't want to accidentally flashbang anyone or get this post marked mature, so I cropped it. Apologies to the artist, and please please click through and check out the full artwork :3

@camrune

@konigsblau

@houseoftroi

@radcowboylad

@doodleebug13

@cerosin-bis

@glitterypirateduck This is a celebrity faceclaim, but I love it so much I have to have it here. (post by GPD here, gif is linked to original source)

@pettycoeurs

no image for this one. truly one of my all time favorite Königs, so it will be a surprise. enjoy.

#könig #konig #könig unmasked #unmasked könig #König faceclaim #könig face claim #könig face #konig unmasked #könig cod #konig cod #cod #call of duty

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writerquil · 5 months

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Spoilers!

TW! A rant. Mentions of S@ and Abuse

AHEM! Alastor apologist (and apparently now partial defender) to the rescue!

This post is for anyone switching up on my guy after the newest episode. And the switch up originates from that one scene, you know, the scene below.

(EDIT: Sorry for the random censoring lol, I don't feel like going back to edit it and its an old habit of mine).

Yeah, we all know this scene. Basically the one where Alastor lashes out at Husk.

Immediately after seeing this scene I had TWO different reactions, in which consisted of “wow that was cool” and “people are going to twist this, aren’t they?”

And people did! So here I am!

I’m basically going to show a bunch of reactions and concerns to said scene that I disagree with and then I’ll say why!

1. “Alastor is like Valentino!”

Don’t even say that. PLEASE NO.

I like to think that I’m pretty good at letting my liking for characters go the moment that I realize they’re wretched in specific ways, but this never occurred for Alastor.

You wanna know why? Because he is NOTHING like Valentino apart from the fact that they’re both overlords who carry soul contracts. I don’t think I really need to pick apart their personalities because we can already tell how different they are.

The only reason why the two were “grouped” together was because Husk and Angel were stuck in situations both caused by soul contracts and an overlord which caused the two to be mentioned alongside each other.

2. “Husk’s relationship to Alastor is EXACTLY the same as Angel and Valentino’s!”

Nope. Both relationships, admittedly suck, trust me, I’m not discounting either relationship or saying “ok well one has it worse than the other”.

But come on guys, the relationships are not the same. Alastor sucks to Husk, obviously, considering he is forced to do his bidding for who knows how long? But there’s obviously a fine line between the two relationships.

There’s parallels of course, with the chains and the soul dealing. The situations aren’t completely the same but they have similar sources so parallels are bound to occur.

Valentino is an abusive ass whom frequently physically and emotionally abused Angel and Alastor (from what we’ve all seen) can be a jerk who drags Husk into clearly many “favours” such as working at the hotel and possibly many more considering he’s clearly met more of Alastor’s colleagues and friends before.

They’re both forced into things and with their souls under contract, they can’t do much about it. But the things they’re forced to do are significantly different. Once again, this isn’t me saying anyone has it better, because it’s not a competition.

But the relationships are not the same. The two are brought in for significantly different things. Do you really think Alastor is s3Xua!!y abusing Husk whenever he’s brought in? Yeah, no, me neither.

Do you think he’s mentally abusing him too, or that a situation like what was displayed occurs often whenever Husk does come in? Because no. Didn’t you see how startled Husk was? This clearly wasn’t just an average event that happened between the two frequently and the fact that Husk was willing to push Alastor’s buttons a bunch in the first place just shows that he wasn’t expecting it to happen either.

And for the people so insistent on Alastor abusing him like that. I suggest you hide your weird k!nks better.

3. “Alastor tortures Husk frequently!”

Okay and what gave you that idea? Was it the way that Alastor lashed out? Because he didn’t lash out of the blue as you may think.

Husk pushed his buttons and Alastor got angry. Trust me, I love Husk but he played a stupid game and got surprised when he won a stupid prize.

Considering Alastor abusive after pulling Husk to the floor is strange. Trust me, if he was supposed to be abusive, it would be explicitly showed throughout the episodes. And before you say “well it was implied”, I really don’t think so.

And once again, Husk was clearly extremely startled, which means this probably doesn’t happen very often. Which also discounts you all considering him to be similar to Valentino, who displayed hurting behaviour frequently.

Like the most we’d even seen interaction between the two was in the pilot and the recent episode. I think we’d get more display if there was more violence occurring in the relationship.

4. “I used to like Alastor before…”

Then what? You realized he was evil and did evil things? YEAH, he’s bound to threaten someone here and there.

Like if you don’t like him after witnessing his literal evilness then sorry to say, you never liked him in the first place.

I’m sorry for this guys but seriously. You can’t switch up on an evil character for doing evil things. He’s going to threaten people. Just know that when he does, it doesn’t signify he’s abusive or assaults Husk on a daily basis.

#hazbin hotel episode 5 #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel #alastor haters are gonna make me cry #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin alastor #rant #angel dust #hazbin hotel angel dust #hazbin husk

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schemmentis · 2 months

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La Cosa Nostra - Pt. 4

Cowritten w/ @janeyseymour

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Summary: The search warrants on your salon and house are executed and Melissa turns to an unlikely source for help...

WC: 2k

You turn to your right, glaring hard at Sammy. And then you remember that the books for your family are stowed away- in your safe... at home. Melissa is at the restaurant as far as you’re aware, and if the FBI finds that safe hidden under one of the broken floorboards in your room, you’re dead meat.

What you don’t know is that Melissa, after making a few calls, ends up back at home. She immediately goes for the safebox to look for anything else that could somehow miraculously get you out of this sticky situation, but when she opens it she finds the binder that holds your fate. That’s the absolute last thing she wants to see in your house. She lets out a shaky breath before picking it up and holding it close to her chest. She has no idea where to even take it. If the interrogation leads to warrants, they’re going to check your salon, your home, your cars, even her restaurant.

And then an idea strikes her- and she hates that she even thinks of this. Barbara Howard has no connection to anyone other than being the sweet woman that your family engages with at church. And even at that, your girls are so popular among the congregation, that the entirety of that circle adores you and your family- they can’t certainly go there and interrogate every single person who gathers. Even if they did, nobody knows of the illegal business that she and you run- not even the reverend.

Before she can talk herself out of it, the Italian woman dials the number that she had only dialed a few times before- mostly to pray over you and your girls together, and once to gossip about the fact that Sister Sloss had been skimming money off the top of the church funds and dipping her own toes into a business she had no right to be a part of.

“Hello? Melissa?” the other woman answers the phone.

“Hey, you remember when you told me I didn’t need to wait to meet you at Mass?”

“Of course I do, and I meant it,” Barbara says into the phone, eyebrow raised.

The redhead runs a nervous hand through her hair. “Care to have brunch?”

“I would be delighted,” the church going woman smiles into the phone. She has no idea what she’s just gotten herself into.

The two women meet at a small diner a few blocks away from the church, and Melissa has the ledger hidden in her all too big bag.

“Not that I’m not happy to be here, but what made you change your mind?”

Melissa lowers her eyes to the table as she lets out, “I need you to do me a favor- no questions asked.” When the woman across from her furrows her brow and bites her lip, the redhead continues. “I have something I need you to hold onto for the time being.”

“And what would that be?”

“I thought I said no questions asked,” Melissa grumbles. “Just... the ledger for the salon. You just have to hold onto it and keep it safe until I take it back.”

“Melissa, are you and Y/N committing fraud?” Barbara asks lowly, just barely audible.

The redhead shakes her head, and she’s telling the truth. “It’s just an extra copy of the financials, but I have a feeling they’re going to take the original copy and I need a backup so I can sue their asses when this is all over.”

Barb closes her eyes for a few seconds, internally wrestling with herself.

“Please,” Melissa begs. “If not for me and Y/N, then for Cat and Rosie.”

“Okay. Hand it over.”

“I’ll give it to you when we’re leaving,” the redhead sighs. “Now, can we talk about what Delisha was wearing today?”

The pair end up having a delightful brunch, and when they part ways Barbara takes the binder with explicit instruction from the Italian to never open it and to hide it somewhere safe- somewhere where even Gerald or the Howard girls won’t be able to find it.

And then Melissa is on her way back home.

Meanwhile, your salon is being torn apart as they look for anything suspicious. There is nothing though of course, because the one thing that they’re looking for isn’t there anymore. Hours go by, and as they move and rearrange everything in the building, you’re right behind them cleaning it up. Your salon might be a front, but you still do good business, and you’d like to keep it that way if possible. It’s the extra pocket money that you and your wife use to spoil the girls as often as you can.

You think of them as you put your business back together- how they’re probably running amuck right now in kindergarten with their all too smart little mouths that they undoubtedly learned from Melissa, their insanely high energy levels. If you can remember as you glance at the clock, they’re probably sprinting around the recess yard giggling with glee at this very moment. It makes your heart warm, and you silently pray to whatever God is out there that they’re safe, happy, and that they get to keep their innocence as life continues for them.

It seems like hours pass before the search is over. But then they move onto your house, and a nasty pit settles in your stomach. Sammy drives with you back to the house, but when he pulls in, the family car is sitting there. Melissa’s home?

Danik knocks on the door rather abrasively, and inside where your wife is folding your girls’ clothes in the living room she jumps.

“Hello?” She comes to the door and opens it wide, hoping to give off the impression that the two of you have absolutely nothing to hide- only she knows that there’s nothing here.

“Hey honey,” you sigh softly as you step past the officers to peck her lips. “Why are you home? I thought you had work today?”

She holds up her injured hand. “I got into a fight today... the knife won.”

“Baby,” you look up at the ceiling with an exasperated look as you take her hand in your own and start to unwrap it to check the damage. “Were you singing and dancing again while trying to dice the onions?”

“Maybe,” Melissa shrugs, although she knows that is very much not why she nicked her fingers today.

“Enough,” Danik steps between the two of you. He holds up the search warrant for Melissa to see. “We have to search your home now for any ties to the murder of Bobby Esposito.”

“To Bobby?” your wife plays dumb. “That was such a shame what happened to-” She doesn’t get to finish her sentence because the police push past her rather harshly and begin their search.

They look through the whole house- moving furniture, opening drawers and cabinets, even going as far as pulling back the blankets on your twins’ beds while you and Melissa just continue to fold laundry in the living room. Hopefully by just letting them do their thing and not trailing their every step, they realize that you were not involved in the hit on Bobby. They find nothing. But then, they head into your bedroom.

Melissa is clearly trying to silently convey something to you, but you can’t pick up on what she’s attempting to tell you. Her eyes dart to yours every few moments from over the laundry you’re both folding, returning to the doorway of your bedroom that the agents are currently tearing apart.

“We found something!” Shaw shouts to Danik, who is still combing through the girls’ room. The woman goes rushing into your room, and you blow out a breath as you know they’ve just found the loose floorboard with the safe... that contains your ledger. You know your arrest is only minutes away.

“Mrs. Schemmentis, enough of the domestic household act,” Danik rolls her eyes as she steps into the living room. “We found the safe, and we need you to open it.”

You take your wife’s hand in your own and squeeze it gently, as if to say, ‘I love you, and I’m sorry’. She just returns the gesture as you both make your way into your bedroom.

The safe is sitting on your bed, and the agents look all too happy to have found what they think they’re looking for.

“Open it,” Shaw instructs.

You do, and when you expect to find the ledger laying on top where you had put it last night, you only find all of your other legal documents- birth certificates for your family, passports from the trip to Italy a few summers ago, your marriage license, social security cards. You try to hide the absolute shock in your face- where the hell could the ledger have gone?

Admitting defeat for now, the agents leave your home promising that they will find whatever you’re hiding. You shoo them out, telling them that you weren’t connected to the hit on Bobby in the slightest and that you wish they would just leave you alone. You tell them that you would kindly appreciate it if they would leave you to take care of your injured wife.

Sammy also makes his exit after assuring you that they aren’t going to find anything. That leaves just you and Melissa. You gently unwrap her hand to change the gauze out when your eyes meet hers.

“Where the hell did the books go?” you whisper, almost afraid that the cops had somehow bugged your house and you weren’t aware.

“Why was it in our house to begin with?” your wife shoots out just as quietly. “We had one rule, and it was that none of that shit ever comes home with us to protect the girls. Do you know how pissed I was when I found it?”

You close your eyes briefly at your wife’s biting tone. She may be quiet, but you can see the echoes of how furious she was when she initially found the ledger in your home.

You’re taken back to just after the girls were born. Barely six months old, swaddled in blankets and tucked safely in their car carriers a few feet away from you and Melissa both. The two of you helped put back together the apartment that had been flipped entirely upside down by the police. An hour before you had watched the tail end of the search being finished. It had, unfortunately in your eyes, been successful for the police and ended with Melissa’s younger brother Mickey in handcuffs.

It was then that Melissa had looked at you, in the middle of trying to put her brother’s apartment back together, with determination set in her features. ‘Business never comes home.’ She said firmly. It wasn’t a sentiment you were inclined to argue with, and if you had been, the look on your wife’s face would ensure you wouldn’t have.

“I knew they were going to search the salon, so I brought it home until I could figure out what to do with it,” you mumble. “I was going to get rid of it by the end of today.”

“Well you’re damn lucky Val convinced me to take the day off after I nearly cut off my fingers because I was so distracted worrying about you,” Melissa hisses out. “If you knew they were going to search the salon, you damn well knew they were going to search the house too!”

“I didn’t think they’d do it all in one day!” you defend yourself as you wrap her hand just slightly more aggressively than you usually would (and even then, it’s not aggressive at all... you handle your wife with such delicate care). “Now where is it?! My life depends on that book!”

“It’s somewhere no one will ever think to look,” the redhead tells you with a smirk on her face.

“Melissa Ann,” you huff out in frustration. “Now is not the time for games. Where is the damn book?!”

“With Barbara Howard,” Melissa whispers.

#melissa schemmenti fanfiction #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #abbott elementary fanfiction #la cosa nostra #janeyseymour #collab fic

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finn-writes-stuff · 7 months

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Jack of All Trades (pt 2)

A follow-up to -this- post, with the rest of the party. The Original Request: Hello. If you're willing and have the time, I jumbly request a TLOVM headcannon for the team having an s/o who steals their weapons and tries to figure out to use them. What would their reactions be and would they/how would they teach them to use the weapons?

Percy, Vax, Scanlan & Grog x Reader

Fandom: The Legend of Vox Machina/ Critical Role

Format: Headcanons

Gender Neutral Reader

Masterlist

Some credit to my lovely partner for giving me accurate info about their specific weapons. As well as a discussion on whether or not you can say Percy or Orthax invented Guns. -Finn

Percy

With anyone else in the party, there's a good chance you may have used a weapon like theirs before. But not Percy and his guns. These are his own inventions, new to Tal'Dorei completely.

They are also powered by exploding gunpowder. He is a little bit worried about letting you handle them.

Hearing a gunshot when he isn't causing it is a deep cause of concern for him, please don't steal his guns, just ask.

Percy will absolutely teach you! It's a chance to have his arms around you as he steadies your aim and stance.

He's a very...specific teacher. You have to make sure he doesn't get too wrapped up in the fine details. Keep him on track with how to shoot and he won't get way into the actual mechanics of the hammer of the gun.

Let him watch you shoot after you get the hang of it. He'll start to understand why you like watching him so much.

Vax

This man owns so many knives. He has a full-out collection of daggers. Hugging him is a dangerous prospect because you never know where one is hiding.

And with all the different daggers, it can't be that hard to steal one or two of them. How could he even notice?

Stealing them proves to be surprisingly hard. He doesn't store many of them, they always seem to be on his person.

But once you manage it, it's quite a lot of fun to handle a truly well-made dagger. In a fantasy world like this, every adventurer has held a dagger, but Vax turns it into an art and his tools reflect that.

They are also insanely sharp. Don't get too cocky with them.

He swipes them out of your hands when he finds you with them, and it's obvious just how experienced he is with handling knives. He can twist and spin them without a glance or a nick.

"Well, well, someone's got sticky fingers, hey love?"

He'll teach you how to throw them accurately and how to spin them without hitting your fingers. He will also tease you while you practice before you get the hang of it.

Scanlan

Scanlan doesn't particularly use a weapon! He's fairly strictly a spellcaster.

That being said, his instruments are likely the next best thing, particularly his lute. And that is his baby, best of luck stealing it.

If you ask him, he'll let you play it and he'll teach you during downtime. He will also serenade you for demonstrations.

He'll be annoyed if you take it without asking though. His music is a source of safety for him as much as a source of joy.

Let him teach you songs around the fire at night and serenade him in return. He won't stop smiling for ages.

Grog

Grog has had some...questionable weapons. Perhaps don't borrow Craven's Edge.

But borrowing his axe or his gauntlets is a world of fun. Even if they might not be well weighted for anyone who isn't as strong as he is.

You will quickly realize how much work goes into swinging his axe and it puts his effortless attacks into a very different light for you.

Grog laughs out loud when he sees you using his weapons, but it's full of fondness and affection.

Even if he isn't exactly academically clever, this is his skill set, he knows how to fight and he does it well. So he's a really good teacher as he corrects your stance and grip.

His teaching method also includes encouraging you to just swing at him, so you'll need a bit of courage and faith that you won't hurt him.

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deppiet · 11 months

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About the yassification of GO2.

Warning: the following text is highly critical of the second season of Good Omens. If you enjoyed it, I am happy for you, and a non-negligible amount of jealous as well. Please scroll past before I inevitably rain on your fandom parade.

So, I did the thing. I binged the entire second season of what was, up to now, my favorite show ever, in one sitting. And I have a great deal of things to say, but hardly any of them is positive.

Let me start by saying that I don't mind the cliffhanger or the melancholy ending, like at all. In our era of Marvel apologists and the instant gratification culture, it is necessary for media to persevere and add nuance to romantic relationships. That said, what transpired during the six hours leading up to this sort of unearned climax hardly contains anything remotely close to nuance.

Who are these people? I don't mean the new characters, all of them written as cardboard-cut anthropomorphic personifications of stereotypes, yassified to the point of representation losing its purpose and getting in the way of, you know, actual writing. I mean the protagonists themselves, Aziraphale and Crowley, up to now my favorite characters in the entire world and -up to now- tangled in a love story so beautiful I had, for better or for worse, devoted a large part of my creative output on it, making art, songs, and metas on why what those two entities had was as close to perfect as anyone can hope to find for themselves.

These are not the characters I knew. The characters I knew spent hundreds of human lifetimes revolving around each other in a treacherous yet familiar dance- they both knew the love was there, it was comfortable like an armchair that has taken the shape of the body using it for years. They argued the way old couples do, and of course, like all fictional beings that are counterparts of one another, had differences to settle, but what stood in their way wasn't misunderstanding or miscommunication, in was their fear of Heaven and Hell, and their fundamentally different approaches on how to keep each other safe.

What is all this teen angst? This will-they-won't-they silliness that lacks any nuance, thematic coherence, or literally even trace amounts of understanding of the source material? Where is the dark humor, the quotability, the chaotic overarching plot, the self conscious camp? The season is so cynically written to cater specifically to a certain part of fandom, that I am losing respect for the original work- because if Neil Gaiman doesn't care for these fictional beings, and he evidently doesn't, why should I?

The thematic core of what made Good Omens what it was, had always been the "Love in unexpected places" trope Sir Terry Pratchett knew how to write so well. It had never been about the fantasy, because Sir Terry wrote satire wrapped up in a supernatural package, it had never been about the romance, because when the ship becomes the end instead of the means, the love rings hollow, like artificial light trying to pass as sunshine. The beating heart of GO lies in its philosophy, in the beautiful notion that the agents of two oppressive systems at war have more in common with one another than with their respective oppressors. That being a nobody, a mere cog in a larger machine, says more about said machine than it does about you, and that you can try to break free and build a life for yourself, where a happy ending looks like a dinner at the Ritz with the one you love most.

Shoehorning an underdeveloped "romance" between Beelzebub and Gabriel not only feels like bad fanfic (disclaimer: I like the ship and feel like it could have worked if developed in any capacity, and presented in a more humorous and character-appropriate way. I hate with passion how much they watered down Beelzebub in order to make them stereotypically romanceable, adding the Ineffable Bureaucracy to the ever-expanding list of characters I don't care about anymore.) but also, it muddles and grossly undermines the thematic raison d'être of Ineffable Husbands. If the ramifications for defecting and fucking off with the enemy were a slap on the wrist for the respective leaders of both sides, well surely the system can't be that oppressive after all. And if fear of the oppressive system wasn't, after all, what kept these beings apart, surely these two entities don't like each other as much as we thought. Or rather, one is reduced to a lovesick puppy and the other to a brainless husk of a character, a plot device, a means to go from place A to place B without spending much brainpower on the logistics.

And if these two new people got to kiss I care not, for they are not the same people I rooted for (props, though, to the actors, who gave, somehow, an almost Shakespearean gravitas to their love affair, underwritten and dumbed down as it was. They both love the characters, and it shows in the minuscule yet brilliant ways in which they added nuance where the script had none.)

What was that thing with the lesbians about? Though straight passing, I have always known myself to be attracted to women as well as men, and I am always highly suspicious when an "ally" writer (see: straight, no shade to straight people among which I live because they are, like, the majority) decides to make all characters queer, in the face of real-world statistics and despite NOT being queer themselves. When a person like Nate Stevenson does it they get a pass because writers self-insert and because, when done well, it can carry a message of equality. But when the ally writer does it, unless it is pitch-perfect, I am forced to examine the possibility of them being calculating about it and trying to score representation points, often because they need the rep as a fig leaf to cry homophobia behind when people start complaining about the atrocious plot.

Nina and Maggie were boring. They had no personalities, no cohesive backstories, nothing to make us understand what they are to one another and to the overarching plot ("plot" is used loosely here, for there was no plot: the series ended where it should have started, with six hours of -progressively more offensive to my intelligence- fanfic tropes in a trenchcoat serving as the, well, "plot"). I didn't care whether or not they'd end up together, because I have no idea who they are. The blandness of the dialogue had the actresses, both very talented as evidenced in the first season, grasping at straws with what little characterization they were left to work with, and the "ball" was so unbelievably bad a plot device no amount of suspension of disbelief was ever going to make it right.

The minisodes, though at parts clever and philosophical, felt out of place. This was another narrative choice I had to raise my eyebrows at, because it felt like a bunch of executives sat around a table and watched Neil Gaiman's powerpoint presentation of what made Season 1 financially successful. They were shoehorned in, largely irrelevant to the, eh, "plot", and most of them lasted far more than I personally deemed welcome, or necessary.

What else is there to say? The wink-winks and nudge-nudges to the Tumblr nation? The in-your-face Doctor Who reference? The narratively myopic choice to make Crowley a former archangel? The cheese dialogue, not one bit of which was quotable?

I am distraught. I am grieving an old friend, and a part of my fandom life I cannot, in good faith, return back to after this gross betrayal. I am happy for those who don't see it, because I wish I could love this season past its flaws. However, the writing isn't simply mediocre, it is irrevocably, immeasurably, undescribably bad, so bad I am shocked to my very core, so bad I find it offensive to Sir Terry's memory and everything his own creative output was lovingly filled with.

I am passing all five stages of grief and very much doubt I will return to this fandom. I loved the original story and the characters with all my heart- now the aforementioned heart is broken, not by the breakup or anything as pedestrian as cheap romantic tropes. But because my old friends, my family of fictional beings, are no longer the ones I loved and could relate to.

Deppie out.

#good omens #good omens season 2 #go2 #good omens 2 spoilers #gos2 spoilers #good omens s2 #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens critical #good omens season 2 critical #neil gaiman #terry pratchett #good omens spoilers #michael sheen #david tennant

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spacecolonie · 10 months

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i adore your paintings so muchhh would you happen to have any other tips or tutorials for your process? anything from thumbnailing all the way to final render

Thank you 😭♥ I appreciate that a lot!! To start with I've got my advice tag (both new and veeery old stuff lol), & my youtube has a couple of speedpaints on it, one with commentary including process, brushes etc

In terms of general stuff about how I approach painting, I tend to tailor the method to the desired outcome. I talk about it more in depth on this post here, I also link to some references & tutorials that I really enjoy/recommend!

Besides that though, I guess I can do a little walkthrough of the Whisper & Tangle painting I uploaded a few months ago, since I tried something new with it that I pseudo integrated into my workflow & could be fun to talk about? 🤔

SO yes, I do always thumbnail when I'm doing a bigger painting, and they're definitely not pretty LOL. I usually use the colour fill lasso just to block in basic shapes and values with a gradient map slapped on the top -- I ended up swapping the values around in the end because it let me use the fireflies as the sole light source, making it more character focused! Then it's the usual process of resketching it all & flatting in the base colours (I also added Whisper's wisps hehe), then adding shading:

This is how I usually approach it, w/ all the shading layers clipped to the original flats to preserve editing. Multiply, screen & overlay are the most common layer modes I use while doing this, and if I'm ever struggling I'll sometimes add a gradient map too in order to unify awkward colours etc. The new thing I tried for this painting was doing what's often nicknamed as a 'clown pass' -- which is using hard edged shapes to create an easily-accessible selection mask for each part:

It looks Super funny but I actually found it very helpful, and I ended up using it to select & cut out all of their body parts onto seperate layers, which were then alpha locked. It meant I could go ham w/ large or textured brushes, smudges etc without worrying about losing those edges, or accidentally over-rendering and screwing up the anatomy in the process!!

I've kept doing something similar since, though it's a bit more dialed back; mainly using the lasso select to chop it up directly and preserve specific/necessary edges, grouping up similar body parts on a single layer etc.

After doing all that, I sat down and started rendering. The background was all blocked in & detailed with a hard round brush and these amazing brushes from Devin Elle Kurtz. There isn't anything super insightful that I think I could type on how I render, but I do have that speedpaint I mentioned earlier that'll probably shed more light. It's just a lot of eyedropping & painting, rinse and repeat

When rendering is done I usually add a concoction of adjustment layers, as well as an overlay w/ a noise texture on it. I also sharpen it all after doing so! These are the ones that I ended up adding for this painting:

The dupe & blur is a fun thing that doesn't always work, but it looks super neat when the painting itself calls for it, especially when paired w/ that noise texture. It can make stuff look like an old/low quality photograph or recording -- here's another example w/ a shadow and amy doodle I posted a few months ago:

That's about it for this painting, the majority of the time spent on it was honestly me rendering those damn leaves 🥲 Very tedious but worth it & it was a really good learning experience. I'm not sure if any of this will prove useful but thank you so much for sending in the ask, & if you (or anyone else reading this) wants a similar breakdown for a different painting of mine, please do let me know and I'll try my best to do one!! 🥺💞

#tutorial #kinda. i'm counting this as one... i should really start a new tag for these sorts of posts because theyre super fun #art breakdown #maybe??#either way thank you so much ♥

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penny-anna · 5 months

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while im talking about the Elagabalus thing, while i was refreshing my knowledge i ran into this little tidbit that i'd forgotten about!

SO the source for the oft-cited claim that Elagabalus wanted a vaginoplasty is Cassius Dio. If you look up Dio on the subject you might notice that the reference in question actually appears twice within a couple of paragraphs:

He carried his lewdness to such a point that he asked the physicians to contrive a woman's vagina in his body by means of an incision, promising them large sums for doing so.

& then shortly thereafter:

Avitus [Elagabalus], according to Dio, besought his physician to employ his skill to make him bisexual by means of an anterior incision.

(both excerpts from the Loeb Classical Library edition translated by Earnest Clary which you can read online (free & legal!) here.)

What's happening here is that, unfortunately, Dio's history of Rome doesn't actually exist anymore in its original form. The text as we have it is cobbled together from a number of summaries by later writers & some fragments. Occasionally we have different versions of the same passage that disagree as to what Dio actually said and translations opt to include both versions.* There's an introduction to the Loeb edition with more information that you can read here.**

in this instance it seems to me that there's a couple of possible explanations for the disagreement:

Dio just said that Elagabalus wanted a vagina and the author of the 2nd fragment assumed this meant 'as well as' rather than 'instead of' a penis.

Dio did say that Elagabalus wanted to be 'bisexual'*** and the author of the first fragment skipped over it; or

both authors are misrepresenting what Dio actually said.

There's 2 major takeaways from this IMO:

1: Not only do we not know for certain whether the claim that Elagabalus wanted a vagina is actually true, we don't even know what the primary source actually said about it.

2: the second variation on the claim implies that Elagabalus's end goal was to have both a penis & a vagina. this is, obviously, not very cisgender behaviour, but it also strikes me as potentially implying that Elagabalus might have been (in modern terminology) bigender or genderfluid. Which is, ofc, assuming that the claim has any truth to it, but if we're going to take it at face value then IMO we do need to acknowledge that it doesn't unambiguously indicate that Elagabalus was a binary trans woman.

Anyway I just think the discrepancy here is interesting on a couple of different levels and also serves to illustrate the difficulty of making any definitive claims on the subject!

*I did actually make an attempt to figure out where each bit comes from. The first variation is from the works of Zonarus who is one of our major sources on Dio. I can't figure out the citation on the second variation and, tbph, there's only so much research I'm willing to do for a tumblr post.

**If you've clicked the link and skimmed over it like 'wow this is really dry & tedious'. yeah. :(

***(I can't read Greek well enough to say what word is used here. The translation is from 1927 and is presumably using 'bisexual' as an outdated way of saying 'both sexes'. If anyone knows what the Greek text actually says please let me know, I'd be interested!)

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carriehobbs · 2 months

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i've been thinking about the detective's nanny from the agency again (because i saw this post) and i decided to compile what information i could find about the nanny with their sources. if anyone has anything i missed, please let me know so i can edit the post and add it!

the detective had multiple agency nannies(1, 2) who were supernaturals(3), at least one (if not all) of whom had "empathic type abilities"(4)*. the detective didn't have "a different one [nanny] every week" but also likely didn't have "one for their whole childhood"(2). instead, "they likely shift out quite a bit on a rota"(1). i would speculate that the detective likely had one nanny for a few years, then another nanny for a few years, and so on and so forth until they aged out of requiring the nanny's care, as "children need stability"(2).

rebecca ceased to hire agency nannies "as soon as MC was mostly old enough to care for themselves and before drawing the MC’s attention" to the supernatural(5). afterwards, the nannies would have been reassigned and moved away from wayhaven(6). it is currently (as of july 4 2018) unplanned for any of the nannies to show up in the series(6).

it was due to the detective's response (or lack thereof) to the nanny's supernatural abilities that rebecca figured out about the detective's mutation(3, 4). rebecca knew that something was odd about how the detective responded (or didn't respond) to supernaturals, but it didn't click until the murphy case that the detective also had the mutation that murphy was after(3). the agency nanny (and likely any other supernaturals that the detective encountered) would have been confused about the detective's (lack of) response to their abilities(4).

we know very little about the specifics of what responsibilities rebecca took on when raising the detective. it has been stated that rebecca was "home for those special moments in the MC’s life" such as holidays(7)**. rebecca "was there [for the detective] as much as possible, but mostly it was the nanny who was there"(1). it is unclear precisely what daily activities rebecca was involved in when raising the detective.

*it is often difficult to determine whether or not a statement applies to one of the detective's nannies or to all of them; mishka often answers asks about the detective's nannies as if there was only one nanny, (i suspect as there was originally only planned to be one nanny(2) and mishka later expanded on how the agency handles childcare), though it has been stated that the detective had multiple nannies.

**it should be noted that holiday magic(8) directly contradicts the statement that rebecca was home for the holidays and that she "went as far out as she could with things like that"(7). in holiday magic, the detective states that they often spent christmas with an elderly couple in wayhaven (the wrights) instead of their regular nanny when they were as young as the age of three. however, i think it is worth questioning how much of what is written in holiday magic should be taken as gospel given the game's noncanonical status. ultimately, i think it is up to each player to evaluate the reliability of information that is mentioned in the books themselves, information mentioned in asks, and information in noncanonical side-stories (such as holiday magic).

(1) https://seraphinitegames.tumblr.com/post/182422584823/if-it-isnt-too-spoilery-im-quite-curious

(2) https://seraphinitegames.tumblr.com/post/190423259894/i-remember-in-an-ask-you-said-that-we-were-mostly

(3) https://seraphinitegames.tumblr.com/post/178882583572/not-sure-if-its-been-asked-before-but-how-did-the

(4) https://seraphinitegames.tumblr.com/post/180171443194/how-did-mc-react-to-supernaturals-without-knowing

(5) https://seraphinitegames.tumblr.com/post/176946500762/are-we-ever-going-to-learn-who-raised-mc-like-was

(6) https://seraphinitegames.tumblr.com/post/175536877158/so-youve-stated-that-a-nanny-took-care-of-our

(7) https://seraphinitegames.tumblr.com/post/179891796139/was-rebecca-always-home-for-the-holidays

(8) https://seraphinite.itch.io/holiday-magic-a-wayhaven-christmas-story

#wayhaven if #my writing tag

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jbuffyangel · 22 days

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The Canary: Arrow 2x05 Review (League of Assassins)

Yeesh there is a lot of Lance drama in the beginning of Season 2. We finally get the backstory on Sara, but it’s the spectacular Oliver and Laurel scene that has me cackling.

Let's dig in...

Sara Lance

They reshot the whole pilot scene between Oliver and Sara only this time, we see what happens to Sara after the boat sinks and she’s swept out to sea. How this woman did not get hypothermia from only wearing a bra and underwear in the North China Sea is beyond me.

This scene just incenses me. It irks the absolute crap out of me when Sara says, “Laurel is gonna kill me.” Sara says it like she’s borrowing Laurel’s sweater without asking. YOU ARE SLEEPING WITH HER BOYFRIEND. This destroys a relationship. She’s not going to kill you, but she will absolutely cut contact with you, Sara.

I know he’s pre-island Ollie and he’s just the absolute worst, but the smarmy “Your sister will never know” as he climbs on top of Sara is just so disgusting. I cannot fathom why people would ever want Laurel to be with Oliver after what he did. Forgive him, fine. Date him? Absolutely not.

Okay, the rage is dying down. Hopefully this is the last time we have to watch this scene.

Sara is staying at the Queen mansion, which doesn’t see very covert, but with Moira in jail and Thea sleeping at Roy’s all the time it actually is a good place for Sara to crash. Better than a clock tower at least.

Oliver is still trying to convince Sara to let her family know that she’s alive, but she’s not convinced all family members *cough*Laurel*cough* will be happy to see her. Sara asks Oliver if he ever got back together with Laurel after he returned home.

Oliver: We tried. It’s too much.

Sara: Some things are better left in the past.

After The Gambit sinks, Sara is floating on a door similar to Rose in Titanic when she’s picked up by the freighter.

Source: saralances

We’re all going to pretend the canary landing right next to Sara is not the most obvious foreshadowing in the world. For anyone questioning if Arrow is making Sara their OG Canary – there’s your answer. You know - if the suit, wicked fight skills and sonic weapon didn’t answer it for you already.

The color of the Canary is important though. It’s yellow. Not black. Arrow is drawing a clear distinction between the two. This is an origin story. It’s not Green Arrow and Black Canary. It’s The Arrow and The Canary.

Sara is thrown in a cage on the freighter, similar to Oliver’s current predicament, but Dr. Ivo protects her from the crew members. He tells Sara he is going to save the human race and invites her to help, so I can only conclude we’re going with Stockholm syndrome in the flashbacks. A twenty something college kid would have very little to offer a mad scientist.

However, Sara’s reticence to return to her family is not related to whatever happened on the island, but rather who she became and what she did to survive AFTER the island. We’re just about to get some details when a man dressed exactly like Malcolm Merlyn comes crashing through a window. Oliver and Sara fight him, but before we can get any answers the man disappears. This is getting annoying. WILL SOMEONE PLEASE EXPLAIN SOMETHING?

Oliver introduces Sara to his team and we get the iconic first meeting between Sara and Felicity.

Source: oliversmoak

Sara does not want Team Arrow to find the assailant however. She knows exactly who he is.

Sara: He’s called Al Ow-al, “The First.” And he’s a member of the League of Assassins.

Oliver has a very strong reaction to this revelation so we can deduce Sara didn’t join the Girl Scouts. The League is, you guessed it, a bunch of assassins who kill and vanish like ghost - previously thought to be an urban legend by Diggle. The League rescued Sara after the island, remade her into an assassin and she swore them her allegiance.

Sara left after she killed a local diplomat in Guyana and his children found his body the next morning. She didn’t want to be a murderer anymore, but now The League is coming after her.

Source: laurelscanary

Felicity’s humor and compassion put Sara at ease after her horrifying confession and this is why I love this character. There’s no judgment from Felicity. She sees Sara for what she is – a person in pain, even if Sara doesn’t see herself that way. Not unlike how Felicity looks at Oliver. And just like Oliver, Sara Lance is SMOAKED.

Source: smoakamell

After Felicity finds Al Ow-al, Sara and Oliver argue about whose fight it is. Sara isn't used to playing with others, but you'd think she'd understand basic strength in numbers. This is the guy who trained Malcolm Merlyn. He stops an arrow with his bare hand while his back was turned!

Al Ow-al: The child of Ra’s Al Ghul awaits your return.

I know who Ra’s Al Ghul is from my Batman days, but in Arrow's world he has a kid. A kid who sent Al Ow-al to collect Sara alive or dead. This is getting complicated. Is there like an employment flow chart we can follow for the League of Assassins?

Oliver: The League of Assassins. Why wouldn’t she tell me what happened to her all those years?

Diggle: Probably the same reason you didn’t tell us what happened to you on the island.

Wow. This is stunning lack of self awareness. Oliver, in case you haven’t noticed, Sara is the girl version of you.

The League has threatened Sara’s family, so Oliver keeps watch over Laurel. Felicity calls Detective Lance to convince him to leave town - while promising Sara to not reveal she's alive.

Source: @noone-seesyou-likeido

Unfortunately, Lance does not listen to Felicity, so Sara decides her secret is not more important than her father’s life. Finally, she is seeing some sense. Diggle, ever the loyal solider, offers to go with as back up, but Sara continues to have this thing about fighting on her own. I guess being an assassin is a solitary job. This does give us one of the best bad ass Sara Lance speeches ever, however.

Sara: Dig, you may be a three tour Special Forces veteran, but I was trained by the people that make the Special Forces look like a kindergarten class. So step aside or get put down.

The reunion between Lance and Sara is all we hoped it could be. It’s not every day your kid comes back from the dead, but Paul Blackthorne does a phenomenal job of moving from shock and disbelief to overwhelming joy.

Source: laurelscanary

Quentin wants answers, but he’s careful not to spook Sara who is still reticent to give details. They go through the nuclear bomb that was set off in their family (the divorce, the alcoholism). Sara apologizes for the damage she caused, but Quentin insists he was to blame, which is more proof he is a really good dad.

He can clearly see his daughter has changed. She speaks Chinese now and is ready to fight to the death with a butter knife. He pieces together Sara is the woman in black; she knows Felicity, The Arrow and is wrapped up in this League that’s after both of them. How this man has not put together Oliver Queen is The Arrow I will never understand.

Quentin: If these assassins, if they hadn't shown up, would you have ever let us know that you were alive?

Sara: No.

Well, at least she’s honest. Sara promises Lance that she never forgot who she was or him despite staying away for so many years.

Source: OILVERSQUEEN

She takes her father to the clock tower which she’s outfitted with booby traps for when the League comes for them both. Sara and Lance hold their own against the assassins, but when The Arrow arrives they achieve the upper hand. Sara has no problem breaking Al Ow-al’s neck, but allows one assassin to live to warn Ra’s Al Ghul.

Sara: Tell Ra’s Al Ghul that my family is off limits. His quarrel is with me.

She is ashamed to show Quentin who she has become – a killer.

Source: sohpiabush

But Quentin feels only pride. How little children understand the depth of a parent’s love. We have already forgiven anything you’ve done or may do the moment you are born.

Quentin: I think you’re a survivor. I think you’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever known. You’re my daughter.

Sara leaves town to lead the League away from her family and Quentin agrees to keep her secret. He will not tell either Laurel or Dinah that Sara is alive because it would get them killed… or something. The logic is not logical, but I don’t really care. They’ll hold the “Laurel finds out Sara is alive” card for May sweeps.

Source: @laurelscanary

This is not the last we will see of Sara Lance. The Canary’s story is just getting started.

Oliver and Diggle

Despite Oliver's spectacularly hypocritical statement about Sara and honesty, there is serious emotional growth this episode. Oliver making this statement about forgiveness a year ago would have been unthinkable. He did not return home with any hope of being forgiven or even welcomed back. I'm going to give the Lance family a shoutout because they had the most to be angry about with Oliver. He asked both Laurel and Quentin for forgiveness and they each have extended olive branches at various time. Hell, Laurel was ready to get back together with him. So, the fact he's able to offer the same hope to Sara is really a full circle moment.

Source: anissagraces

Oliver beginning to believe he is worthy of forgiveness is a direct result of the many hours of therapy with Diggle and Felicity. He is finally starting to really hear them. That's why this moment with Diggle at the end of the episode is truly note worthy.

Source: NUGETAE

Diggle should have this date embroidered on a pillow because it's not often Oliver will admit he was right. But Oliver is not done yet.

Source: COPHINES

He breaks out some Russian vodka and confesses to Diggle he was not always on the island the five years he was gone. Oliver is ready to unburden some of the secrets he works so hard to keep buried.

Source: laurelscanary

Oliver is able to see his own demons reflected in Sara and it finally connects the dots for him. He doesn't have to remain isolated in the world like Sara. Oliver can see Diggle (and Felicity) reaching out to him and he FINALLY reaches back. This is monumental character growth.

Sara: You three are quite the team.

Diggle: We have our moments.

Why Diggle and not Felicity? I think it's easier for Oliver to tell his war stories to another solider. He also doesn't have any fuzzy bunny feelings towards John, which makes things simpler between them. But every time Oliver opens the door to the past, and shares his pain, he is one step closer to the future he truly deserves.

Laurel Lance

Laurel is sitting second chair in Moira Queen’s prosecution, which is actually an INSANE CONFLICT OF INTEREST. Marc Guggenheim, you are a lawyer sir. What is this nonsense?

Never fear! Laurel has used all her pull to get Moira a plea deal - life with the possibility of parole. Understandably the Queen family isn’t thrilled. It’s either life or the death penalty. Laurel even discussing Moira’s case with Oliver is improper ex parte contact. She should be excluded from the case and sanctioned, but this is Arrow and that’s never going to happen.

In the middle of all of this, Oliver continues to ask if Laurel is okay. She is trying to kill your mother, Oliver. I feel how this is impacting Laurel shouldn’t really be your top concern. He is so exhausting around her. Take the hint, my dude. She doesn’t want your help and I’m tired of you two having the same fight episode after episode.

But this episode is not just another round of the same old some old. No, my friends this is a very special episode because it contains one of the best Laurel and Oliver scenes to ever grace our television. Oliver needs to protect Laurel from the League of Assassins, so he takes her out to dinner. Then he walks Laurel back to her apartment (because assassins) but she thinks he’s come up for a very different reason.

And OLIVER REJECTS HER. The way I cackled.

I’m going straight to hell, but I don’t care. This moment is glorious. First of all, Laurel did not have a drink at dinner, so she can’t blame the booze and pills. She just flat out reads the situation wrong. Oliver apologizes for sending a mix signal, but he’s a bit confused. Didn’t they decide they shouldn’t be together out of respect for Tommy? Yes, Oliver. Yes you did. WHAT ABOUT TOMMY, LAUREL?!! This woman did not deserve that man.

Source: ILOVEKCASSIDY

Me:

Oliver promises Laurel he will never leave her and has certainly made every effort to help her, but it is the capacity in which he will stay in her life that is really in question. This moment is HUGE in terms of where Oliver is at emotionally. He is drawing a firm line in the sand. There was a time when Oliver would’ve welcomed Laurel trying to climb him like a tree no matter the circumstance, but not anymore. He clearly states that he cares about Laurel but only as a friend. His concern has no romantic undertone to it.

The balance of power in their relationship has always been tipped toward Laurel. This is the first time it feels like a more even playing field. Instead of Laurel rejecting Oliver – he is rejecting her and for a very good reason. Oliver is not stoned on pills and he remembers they don’t work. They tried to go back and it failed. Oliver has not interest in trying again. For the first time, Oliver is looking forward.

And Laurel, cemented in the past and alone her in apartment, takes some pills.

Stray Thoughts

This secret Moira is keeping is a real humdinger if she’s ok with life with the possibility of parole.

Oliver and Thea promise Moira that she will not lose them no matter the secret. Sure Jan.

"Gee I didn't get you a bag of dirt." Bless this cupcake.

Where did Sara get her suit?

Malcolm Merlyn is also a member of The League of Assassins.

"Oliver’s lucky to have you both as friends. He hasn’t always had the best of luck in that area." Sara’s not so casual remarks about Slade and Shado are friggin ominous. It’s time to get real nervous about the flashbacks.

“You think because you are the beloved that you will be granted your freedom?” We all know who Sara’s beloved is and I’m very much looking forward to her arrival.

"Pain and I came to a little understanding a few years back." Sara takes a licking but keeps on kicking. This is such a bad ass line. The episode is chalk full of them. I love the OG Canary.

Listen to the Watchover podcast reaction to 2x05!!

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