#scottish!luka

[shaylogic]

*tries to figure out breed of cat (some sort of Scottish breed?) Cat King is in early part of season to see if that's why he's wearing a kilt*

*tries to see if Lukas Gage is Scottish*

nope??? He's American

I guess they were just like "let's have fun"

[kleptocurency]

I animalify footballers as a hobby

pls give me requests<333

[solestixx]

1- lukas matsson x reader

word count ≈ 6600

warning: smut and mid writing

____

“Ken- you know this isn’t my scene.” Your voice goes quiet, simply just peering at your brother, anxious for his reaction.

He’s been a bit of a pain in the ass lately, the whole family was a pain in your ass lately, but perhaps it was always this way. The Roy family created chaos and unnecessary drama, that was a given. It was something you tried to detach yourself from; the business, the craze, the constant chatter– it all drained you. From the moment you were born, it was as if your family was screaming from all sides whether it be Roman and Shiv fighting over shit all, or your dad blowing up in your faces.

You always knew that you didn’t fit into the puzzle. You were born a little bit too late, grew up with faint glances of your older siblings, and dismissed like the baby you were. Maybe that was the reason you never considered joining Waystar, or perhaps why a place was never offered. 

Your dad was your dad, perpetually disappointed in you – while at the same time maintaining that you were his favourite. You all knew it was Shiv, but the very fact he insisted that it was you made you villain number one to your siblings. 

So there you were, their little sister who was a fucking writer, twiddling with your ungroomed thumbs, waiting for your family to forget who you were. That being said, it was a surprise when you opened your email to find a very flashy invite to Kendall’s 40th. You didn’t think that your brother would want what he perceived as his Debbie Downer boring little sister at his grandiose douche fest.

“Come the fuck on, it’s my party, Bambi, cheer up, enjoy yourself for once,” Kendall says. “Come on, I’ll take you somewhere special.” As he’s about to leave, you stop him, placing a hand on his arm.

“Wait, Ken. I have a gift for you.” You hand him an envelope, “I didn’t want it getting lost in the mix.”  

Kendall stops with his buzzing, which is probably coke-induced and takes the envelope from your hands. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you sigh as you watch your brother tuck the envelope into his coat. 

He quickly puts a hand on your shoulder before he starts to navigate you around, waving and fistbumping his friends walking by. As quickly as you had gained Kendall’s attention, it faded away from you, as he yelled over at his assistant who seemed new, but you weren’t around enough to know. “Yo! Comfrey, ship up my little sis to the treehouse.”

His assistant – Comfrey, who you knew had definitely been speed walking away from her boss before he hollered out at her – whipped her head towards the both of you. You were the odd couple, Kendall’s glazed over eyes and dopey smile mixed with your grimacing under his touch. “Coming!”

Kendall gives you a pat on the head– a move he often did in childhood, his eyes dead as always as he gives you a good-enough smirk,  “You should avoid the other sibs, they’re strictly business right now – serious work only.”

You smile at his unconscious insinuation. You weren't a serious person to them. You weren’t anything you guessed, “Have fun, okay Ken? And try not to be a complete dick tonight,” you ask before Comfrey pulls me away and Kendall saunters off. 

You watch your brother from the corner of your eyes, and quickly try to keep up with the bouncing ponytail of his young assistant. The hollowness in your chest that used to exist – that there would be ten years ago –  had disappeared now, you were completely okay with the empty promises and empty phrases. 

It’s what you grew up on. Raised in the top two floors of the highest buildings in New York, the Scottish highlands with your father’s forgotten castles, or in sprawling ranches in the middle of nowhere for tax purposes. At least that was the childhood you had with the Logan Roy experience.

After Uncle Ewan’s wife passed away, when you went to her funeral with your whole family, Dad decided that he’d leave his youngest with his brother to build your character. Your siblings were already almost in college and you were, well, the youngest and still complaining about multiplication and school field trips. So, from then on, you distanced yourself. Not entirely by your own volition, but every decision after was. And you prayed that every decision following would be as well.

As you try to keep pace with the taller woman, “So Comfrey, how’d you become Kendall’s assistant?” 

The woman turns around for a second to get a glance at the youngest Roy, she presses her lips together before curtly responding, “I’m his PR rep.”

All you do is hum in understanding, she was a PR rep that was running around like a low-level worker bee trying to satiate her older brother. It was like all people in their lives. 

You pass by the flashing lights, tall glass windows, and strange art installations, not so much admiring them, more like begging to just dissolve into the floor. To melt like the witch in the Wizard of Oz would be your opus, your ooey-gooey pile of person simply having a hard time leaching onto the rich person floors.

When you spot the all-too-familiar treehouse you wince. It seemed that Kendall’s childhood trauma manifested in an exuberant part of his fortieth birthday party. “This is Kendall’s little sister, she’s cool.” Comfrey motions the guards behind her, as you stand awkwardly – it looked like they needed visible confirmation you were you? It took them a second for their heads to look at your orientation. 

While they make way for you, opening up the roped fence, you thank Comfrey, then watch her scatter away, and hurry away probably to clean up Kendall’s inevitable fuck-ups. 

She was nice enough, you guessed; could be worse. 

You wandered through the treehouse with no purpose, staring at the tree trunk columns that looked borderline tacky and its leaf-casted shadows on the walls. You weren’t alone in the room, no there was a boatload of Kendall’s rager hedge fund friends, or celebrities whose faces you remember enough to dart away from – but still, you were alone. You felt eyes on you, people knew that you were a Roy, but eyes don’t give you company. 

The space was large enough to walk around for a few minutes, but eventually, you assumed you just looked out-of-place. Pacing around like a failed dracula, circling his already knowing victims. So you resigned yourself to a couch near a wall, praying that nobody approaches you. At least you wouldn’t be sneak-attacked from the back. That was your worst fucking nightmare – a hand on your back and a networking LinkedIn smiley techie. 

Leaning into the couch’s thin leather you try to get comfortable. The lights were bright enough you hoped, to not ‘ruin the vibe’ with your phone’s obnoxiously bright screen. Staring at your home screen, you forget any work that you had to do – literally nothing of importance that would make you look like you were doing something. Yes, you were writing a screenplay right now, which would be a good thing to work on if you could concentrate in the noisy fucking room. So you just went on Candy Crush, your finger languidly swiping your high school iPhone wanting to shoot yourself. 

You spent an adequate amount of time doing that, getting cozy enough to tuck your feet under your body and let your hair out from the bun it was in. It felt okay, you still wanted to go home, but you were waiting until at least ten percent of the crowd was gone so Kendall wouldn’t get prissy. 

But you couldn’t keep the peace, of course, you couldn’t. Because there Kendall comes into the room, not looking for you, but for a man sitting on one of the benches in the middle of the party.

“There he is!” You internally shrink, like a deflated balloon as your brother approaches. You hide like you were habitually doing as a child, trying to dart off from where you were oh-so comfortable. You hear Kendall saying some other bullshit which you tune out in your panic, but as you’re set to leave he calls out your name. 

“Bambs!” He turns to the man next to him, “This is my sister– she isn’t a vulture like the other ones, don't worry about that.” He looks back at you, then at the man again, “She’ll take care of you, they avoid her like a fucking plague.”

“Really nice, Ken,” you say, walking towards them reluctantly, resigning to sit next to the blonde man. He was tired-looking with hardly-noticeable but still visible rings underneath his eyes, a small smirk of interest on his face as he doesn’t shuffle to give you space, instead moving closer to you.

Kendall leaves, for a reason you are unsure of. You try to stare in his retreating direction as you feel the stranger’s hot eyes on you. You couldn’t read this guy, he seemed like a regular dude at first glance and to your relief he didn’t seem crazed in the eyes or serial-rapey.

“You’re the youngest one, aren’t you? The recluse?” he asks, his accent isn’t American, it was something Nordic – you hadn’t met many of them in your life. 

You turn towards him, to be polite of course, although your body tries to twist awkwardly, making sure he isn’t too close, “Good use of deduction.” He’s attractive, vaguely familiar like everyone in the room, obviously important to your brother, but you still have no fucking clue who he is. “And you’re? One of my brother’s friends?”

He smirks, laying back on a column behind him, “Yeah, we’re best buddies, like peas and a pod.” 

“No name?” He laughs, like he was in disbelief that you didn’t know who he was, “I like this, I’ll be your mystery man, hmm?” He leans further towards you, raising his eyebrows – the lack of space making your face hot. 

You try to escape any feelings of chagrin, crossing your legs, and staring into his eyes which felt like it was more of his soul. Who was this fucking dude? “A mystery man in my childhood treehouse, you’re sounding like a pedophile to me…”

He nods as though he agrees, laughing, “You have a history in this, I assume, with your family.” Oh yes, Uncle Mo. “What do you do? The tabloids say… writer?” 

A part of you feels insecure in your lack of knowledge about him. He knows your occupation, your name, and would probably be able to trace your life back to childhood through the internet, while you sat here like prey for his predator. All in his casual clothing and wolfish smile. 

“Yes, some screenwriting, some things more authorial, enough to get by.” 

It seemed like the idea of ‘getting by’ was amusing to him as he smiled when you said that. Almost as if he was in disbelief that a Roy would ever need to make enough to get by. Maybe he was older money, maybe he grew up in a big castle like you, a prince or something… your mother had always had people like that over when you were young. It was funny, the old aristocrats with their wine and screaming kids. No he wasn’t old money... his whole being read new. New money. New power.

“You dress like you write children’s books, like a sexy-librarian-kindergarten teacher – it’s hot, if I dare-say,” he says. You can feel him looking her up and down and she doesn’t know if you hate it or like it. You may be leaning to the latter with how lonely you’d been feeling for so long. 

You almost roll your eyes, although your face heats up. How long has it been since someone somewhat complimented you? Sure they called your writing good, praised you in those magazines– no journals they called them, but nobody ever looked at you. Even if it was a half-insult. 

You did dress conservatively, at least to control the narrative of yourself. Stemming mostly from when the paps took pictures up your skirt as a teenager. They weren’t even decent enough to wait until you were eighteen, the moment the vultures saw that you wore a short-enough skirt they chased you around trying to get a glimpse of the most elusive Roy sibling; the paps were constantly chasing a story, and for the duration of your childhood you were the most interesting part of the billion-piece puzzle belonging to the Roy family.

Without any response, he moves even closer, if that’s humanly possible – your arms pressing up against each other. He was warm, warmer than the stuffy room around the two of you, “Trying to insinuate something, mystery man?”

“Ja, maybe I am,” he says, before leaning close to your face. “Let’s go somewhere more private.” He offers you a hand to get up, which your body wills you to take, but your brain knows logically any man your brother wants to woo is a douche, yet you’d always think with your feelings. He pulls you through the treehouse, walking into more of a secluded room. 

You feel people watching you, more than before, more than they would the youngest Roy, but his hand feels so warm in yours, and he was even more attractive standing up. Taller than your smaller stature – you were the shortest of your siblings along with the youngest, the baby. It felt nice walking next to him, it felt safe. But still, it felt almost dangerous.

You breathe out a thank god as the two of you get off of the wooden bench and your butt touches a soft surface again. It’s more secluded than your spot before but like every corner of the party, there were still people around you. 

“Not a fan of crowds?” he asks, getting comfortable on the couch and leaning back as you feel his hand rise slowly on your thigh. Like he’s apprehensively confident.

“Is anyone really?” you ask him, he nods slowly, his eyes asking me to go on, “I don’t know why I’m here, maybe just feeling shitty about my family situation, you know? I don't spend much time with them… ever.” You eye the man as he intensely looks back at you – eyefucking you believe it’s called. Oh and his eyes are blue, you’d never noticed that before — remarkably they’re not empty, the soul was still there, at least right now. You have to admit that he’s hot, in this light even more so. His features affirm my suspicions of where he’s from– and as you stare at him even longer you can't quite remember when you’d ever seen a hotter man. “Do you still have no name?”

He grins, looking away, “You’ll know soon enough, won’t you? This is fun for now.” 

“The only name I know you by is pedophile, and I don’t think you want people overhearing. Seems like we have eavesdroppers,” you glance over at the small groups of people around you. You assume that they’re small investors, that they probably know Kendall and whatever business he has with the mystery man. 

“You’re right, my facial expressions plus my conversation are very relevant to the stock market and usually equals tanking.”

“You talking to me will probably tank it, whatever stock you’re talking about—“ you stop yourself from continuing, would Dad be mad that you were talking to him? “You’re not part of Kendall’s crusade, right? Like my father won’t try and assassinate me for speaking to you?”

It’s almost like he enjoys that notion as he laughs to himself, “Don’t worry about Kendall, your dad hiring a guy maybe, but right now I’m to be courted.” He gestures with his hands – which to you are strangely very animated, “You care about what your dad says, do you?”

You respond nonchalantly, though your hands squirm and you look to the ground, “It’s a constant fuck him, and at the same time I love you, Daddy, I guess. He was shit, is shit, but sometimes he’s not too bad.”

“You call him daddy?”

For the second time today, you feel yourself crawl into your skin, “Oh yeah, when we’re in bed together definitely.”

Mystery man almost giggles at your comment, and there’s something affable about that. He was constantly switching from this serious man to a very unserious one. There was some strange part of this that you liked, you liked the attention the way that he looked at you, the bubble he created around the two of you, the way his hand was increasingly inching. 

You think back to the way this night started. You were quite desperate to leave, a bit dampened by the way Kendall accepted your gift, and guilty that you weren't at home taking care of your cat and working. Then you were delivered by this tall Viking man and you were uncomfortably comfortable with the way he made you feel. 

“I kind of want to get drunk.”

“I have no qualms with that,” he responds, a grin on his face as you both get up and inch towards the bar, his hand slipping onto your back easily. 

The time at the bar was spent in easy conversation, you stand against the wall, with him looming in front of you as you drink together. Him a beer and you a drink with a name you’re unsure of – hating yourself for so much enjoying the tang of the liquified poison. 

“Why aren’t you part of your family’s business?”

The way he looks at you… you feel like there’s genuine interest, you look into his eyes and there’s a gleam that scares me. Was he playing with you? Was this a play for your family? You still have no clue who this man is. You let him get too close to yourself, hand on your waist – eyes on yours, too close for a stranger. But you just want to be happy,  to feel like you exist again. Not a fly on the wall, the main course. 

“You know,” you shrug your shoulders, taking another sip as he just looks at you with a weird facial thing that you don’t quite understand. Like he’s teasing you, but ever so slightly, begging you to spill – which you do. “I’m the baby, y’know – Bambi or whatever.”

He tilts his head back as he absorbs, “Bambi… I like that, you look like a Bambi – the deer right?”

“Yes the deer, they–” I hurriedly take another sip of my drink as I recount the story of my ubiquitous nickname, “Once Dad went hunting and brought me along, we spotted a deer and instead of uh– killing it I kind of ran towards it, while his gun was still aimed. He said that he was about to shoot me like I was a Bambi, he said I was so fast that he almost pulled the trigger while watching me through the scope.”

Mystery man looks at me with wide eyes, “Jesus fuck, that’s a shit thing to say. How old were you?”

“Uh maybe ten, by then my siblings were gone and he visited me where I lived with Uncle Ewan in Canada.”

“What a fucking prick.”

“Yeah.”

You stare at each other for a minute, him in front of you and you below him, you really like his eyes. You break it though, your head was starting to spin from the one drink and he was making it almost worse. “Come on, let’s go sit down, I’m gonna get stumbly.”

Pushing yourself away from the wall, you walk towards an empty space with a few chairs around a table and plop yourself down. Curling into yourself, you can just feel him situating himself next to you.

“You’re a lightweight, aren’t you? You look like one too,” he says, taking a swig of his still-almost-full beer.

You glare up at him as you start dozing off, “I’m gonna nap, you do you, pedophile.”

He guffaws, “Okay, no more pedophile jokes, the press hears and I’m done.”

“I wouldn’t know,” you mutter before tucking your head into your own shoulder. 

“I have to ask you something before you nod off.” He seems almost genuine in his words as he furrows his eyebrows and leans towards your chair. You lift yourself ever so slightly showing that you’re listening. “We’ll fuck later right? Like guaranteed?”

You close your eyes again before you can roll them, although a tiny smile slips onto your face – you hope he won’t see it as you bury your face into the back of the lounge chair. 

“I saw that grin, I’m going to take that as a yes.”

“Fuck off, asshole.”

“Don’t contradict yourself now.”

You shake your head in mock embarrassment as you go to sleep. Your head was throbbing a bit, and your heart was beating faster – but you realize that you’d forgotten the loud music, and the crowds of people around. You’d forgotten. You’d found solace after so many years looking for it, in the middle of a mock replica of your childhood treehouse.

And this sleep was peaceful for a while, but then a fucking earthquake rumbled you awake. 

“What the fuck,” you grunted as you felt hands on your shoulders, your eyes bulge open and you see Roman above you. “Rome, leave me alone, you bitch.”

“Were you trying to seduce Matsson for dad?” 

You just roll your eyes, not understanding in your incoherent state what the fuck your brother was talking about – per usual. Looking around you saw that mystery man was gone, and the party was still raging around you. And his name was Matsson? Strange name, but a little bit fitting. 

“I have no clue what you’re talking about… why’d you even wake me up, miss me that bad?” you asked, clearly trying to antagonize him with your whiny voice.

Roman with all his pessimism and ass-holery deadpans at you, “Well I’m fuckin’ sorry, you totally missed the six foot tall Viking who was camped out beside your unconscious body?”

“Is that not the point of being unconscious, dumbass?” 

“Did you fuck him, Bambi? Were you so fucking tired after fucking him that you had to take a big girl nap?”

“There’s something psychologically wrong with you.”

Roman sits squatting on the top of the chair as he pseudo-interrogates you, “Y’know he didn’t let me fucking wake you up, was that a power play or did you let him do you?”

“Rome, I have no idea who that man was, he just said he was your friend and Ken told me to keep an eye on him.” Half-lying was your thing, you guessed. Your life was full of half-lies, momentary omissions of details, ignoring parts of sentences so you seemed more innocent. That was the life of a youngest child out of five you guessed.

“And since when were you Kendall’s bitch?” “Since he invited me to something, unlike you.” 

Roman completely skipped your comment before going off again, “Did he tell you anything, Matsson?”

“Oh yeah, he told me he fucking hates your guts,” you say with a smile, watching your brother getting riled up.

“I’m going to tell Dad that you fucked him if you don’t tell me the truth,” he threatens, it was fun being in this position. You’d so regularly in your childhood been put down by your older siblings, so it was interesting being the one to give it back to them. You finally understood the appeal. Ah, leverage. 

You smile as you pretend to recount, a finger to your chin as you mockingly itch it, “Oh he told me that Dad’s an asshole and he has no interest in business with any of you creeps.”

“You’ve seriously been spending too much time with Uncle Looney? You know that right? You sound delusional, completely and utterly gone.”

As you sit up straighter trying to compose yourself, you eye Shiv coming over to where you and Roman sit (although he’s very much standing, pacing, like a lunatic), her hair a mess and her makeup smudged all over. She’d either just had mind blowing sex or something was seriously wrong with her. 

You and your sister were strained to say the least. You wanted the idealized big sister who would braid your hair and make you up. The sister who would talk about boys with you and argue with you over stealing her clothes. You guessed Shiv more so wanted to prove herself to Dad – she’d always been his favourite. You were more of an afterthought to her. The kind of afterthought that made you do a double take when you remember that you’d buried it so long ago. 

There wasn’t any sentimentality in the title of sister with the two of you. You were just another sibling, and probably her third favourite before Connor. But still, you love her, and you know in the deep recesses of her heart she loves you too. All the siblings love each other, although a strong belief for you was that there were certain dynamics that you were excluded from because of your age and difference in childhood. 

“You do you, Roman. Just know that I’m hoping for your business with him to fail, just handing you my two cents.” Business was a strange concept to you, you were always pushed away from it as a child, leading you to know less than nothing about it. At one point you felt like you would go into it, but that too was ripped away from you. So right now, you just wanted to make Roman feel bad. Sure it was wrong to want to churn your brother into pieces, but it felt so good.

“I know you’re a fucking liar, so just like, sit with that, okay?” 

“Whatever, Roman.”

Roman ignores your words calling out for Shiv. Shiv runs a finger through straight but frizzy hair before coming to give you a half-hug.

The hug was weird and a little bit detached, but it was something, and it made you feel not instantly uncomfortable, but almost happy. Happy to see your sister again a little bit. “Bambi, it’s been like two fucking years.” 

It hadn’t been, but you agree. It felt like it.

“I didn’t know you were keeping track–” you try to say, but Roman quickly cuts you off. Biting off that Shiv was out dancing. Dancing was a human thing. You didn’t know your only sister was a human. 

“Guys, I’m gonna go now, I’ll probably not be in touch, so yeah,” you try and gracefully leave as your siblings bicker about finessing or some shit. 

They both nod non-committedly as you trot off observing Kendall and Connnor at the opposite poles of the room. You choose to not go off towards Kendall, who you knew probably already ruined his night with his overthinking or underthinking. Instead you go to Connor, probably your only kind brother, albeit the fact sometimes he was fucking lawful psychotic.

“Con, Con,” you call out, your small purse at your side as you push it around your body – you’d refused to give it to security earlier, citing personal reasons which they were too scared to deny. They probably assumed it was your period or something like that – you’d made that insinuation when they didn’t relent for your last name.

You see Connor’s coated body turn around as he returns your call, “Bambi! My favourite sister – you remember Willa?” Connor gestures to his arm candy, who didn’t seem too excited to meet you – or meet you again, but obviously faked it. She was very pretty, nearly to the point where she made you feel insecure. But then again, no hate for your brother, but she was with your brother. You were sure Connor had mentioned her in a phone call, but you two never really talked about those kinds of things. He was always ranting on about politics (you think you’re the only one who would listen, so he took advantage of that) or you would talk about your life – never about the company, or really how he was doing besides his ranch. 

“Yes, at Shiv’s wedding, I believe?” She just nods, and you’re both just pretending to know when you last met. There was no recognition in her eyes, and you don’t think you’d ever interacted with her. It was a nice connection you’d had, a shared lie always brings people together.

“Ken, told me you were here, but I thought you’d be gone by now.” Connor pulls you into a hug before saying, “Have you been taking care of yourself, sis?”

“I’ve been doing okay, normally as always.” Noticing his cast, she asks, “What’s up with your arm, Con’?”

“Oh, I was doing an Irish jig as one does, and boom I slipped and it bent in all different directions,” he describes in a strangely vivid way. “I’m feeling better though, Willa helped me recover, right sweetheart?”

“Yep,” she nodded, a smile on her face as she bore her eyes into mine – uncomfortable? Very.

Connor was probably the only one of your siblings you regularly spoke to, yes it was by phone, and no you didn’t always enjoy it, but there was a beautiful normalcy to speaking on the phone with your brother. With Kendall or Roman it always turned into business– about Dad. With Shiv it was her ranting about some political thing, well maybe that was before she turned so Waystar-loco. 

Connor was your normal brother.

“Have you heard of my recent presidential proclivities?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at Willa for support – in which she enthusiastically nods her head.

Maybe he wasn’t exactly the most normal of brothers, but he was more normal than the brother who spoke about you having sex weirdly too much or the one who can’t stop fucking over your dad and snorting cocaine. 

You nod, but before you hear a tumble and watch Roman bending over a kneeling Kendall. What a fucking dick. Kendall’s girlfriend, who you also didn’t recognize was helping him up, and you stood there with no intention to help or rush in, frozen to your spot.

Connor shouts out, “Everyone take it easy, okay?” as Roman maniacally laughs and Kendall helps himself up. 

As Kendall walks past you, Connor, and Willa he grumbles, “Take your fucking coat off,” repeating it to Connor as he walks like a man scorned. Willa blocks Connor from Kendall trying to calm the younger brother down. You avert Kendall’s gaze, standing next to Willa blocking Connor who looks to the ground much like you.

Shiv seemingly walks away from the scene as well, but in the opposite direction from Kendall, and immediately after Willa and Connor walk arm in arm out, saying a quiet goodbye to you.

With one glance to Roman, who’s still muttering curses under his breath on the sofa chairs, you leave. You’d quickly sobered up, and it was time to face the darkness of New York. Walking out of the luxurious Manhattan skyscraper you peer at the artificially brightened roads and the strange silence of the backroads. Instead of taking an Uber or Taxi, you opt for the Subway. You didn’t take an allowance from your Dad like Connor did, you never inherited anything ever, and your last poetry anthology wasn’t lucrative enough to have casual taxi money. You were sure nothing would happen on the Subway, from experience you know that there would just be a few people throwing up and tired workers coming home from the night shift.

Before walking down into the station, you check your phone, one hand on the railing and the other carefully gripping onto your phone. Attention split both ways.

Unknown

Know who I am yet?

1 Missed Call from Unknown

Your heart skips a beat, an adrenaline rich positive-ending to the night beat skip.

Instead of heading inside, you turn around, sitting down on the top step of the stairs, hoping a coked up crypto-bro doesn’t push you down. 

Pressing the call, a part of you hopes he doesn’t pick up, so you can return to normalcy, but the heart wants what the heart wants.

“Bambi?”

You groan, “I thought the story would stop you from calling me that.”

“Not because of the story, it suits you–” he pauses, the line going crackly as you hear him talk to someone, “You’ve left the party?”

“Yeah, walking home now.” “Walking? This is America, ja? You’re on a death mission.”

“It’s not too late, you know serial killers only come out after two in the morning.”

“I can send a car, hmm? You can come over here.”

“What does ‘over here’ mean? To a stranger’s home?”

“You promised me something, didn’t you?”

“Hmmmm, a promise? I don’t remember.”

“Send me your location, I’ll get my guy to get you.”

“Okay, I’ll send my location to a stranger just because he was nice to me at my brother’s party.”

“See you soon then.”

____

The drive was awkward to Matsson’s (you preferred mystery man to what seemingly sounded like a last name, although it might be a first, Europeans were in themselves a mystery as well). The driver was quiet, and the car was a rich person’s. It was a car you were all too familiar with, the car you drove in during your childhood, the same tinted windows and leather seats.

Same thing of riding up to the penthouse of a hotel – he was only here temporarily you surmised. You’d probably be a one-time thing. 

When the elevator doors beep open and you’re in a hallway with one door, anxiety fills you up. What if this was a trap? If he was some sort of sexual pervert, or even worse an axe murderer with an even worse temper than anyone you could find on the New York streets?

But before you can even knock the door swings open and a hand pulls you in, “Fucking asshole,” you whisper as you feel his lips trace over yours, your breath in his. 

He’s rough, and rushed, like he’s a man starved – of you. 

As he starts tracing his fingers underneath your shirt you push his back, two hands on his chest as he kneels his head to meet yours. “What’s wrong?” “I don’t know your name,” you say, almost embarrassed that you hadn’t found it on your own, “Matsson? That’s your name.”

He doesn’t respond, just pulls you close to him, before picking you up into his arms. You restrain a squeal as you struggle in his arms. He navigates through the hallways, looking as though he was confused on the layout of his own homebase, he finds the bed – splaying you down and standing above you like an animal.

“You know, I refuse to orgasm without your name,” you insist. He moves closer and closer, uncharacteristically quiet as he pulls your shirt up laying a hand on your stomach, the other tracing over your soaked panties, slowly creeping towards your sensitive skin. 

He’s strangely gentle with it, until he pulls your panties to the side, spreading open your legs as he buries his face into your pussy. You move your two legs onto his shoulders, as plays with your nipples – languid twisting and faint touches that leave you just wanting more.

You let out a yelp as you feel his tongue move into you, like a fucking shark he dives into your clit as he watches you for your reaction. You know you look like a mess, breathless and desperate. “Please, please–” you moan, desperate for his tongue, for his touch, his everything. 

“Your pussy’s so good, baby– fucking heaven,” he whispers into where his head lay between your thighs. As he blows gently on it, you are wholly exposed and cold, you start squirming. Your thighs start pressing around his head, trying to push him further, which seemed to turn him on even more. Your legs start to shake as your orgasm builds up and builds up, you feel like screaming from the bliss of it, his attack on your pussy is like God reigning down on earth. “Refuse to orgasm, hmm? Want me to stop?”

You shake your head as he continues, “Please, keep going, keep going—” He listens to you, beginning to rub your clit as the feeling of everything continues to crash down on you

“Come baby, come.” He keeps on licking you up, every fucking crevasse. 

Your orgasm came hard and quick, with a groan and a twitch your eyes rolled over as you released his head from in between your thighs, and as quickly as he got there, he climbed on top of you – his larger body engulfing yours as he hurriedly kisses you. 

“I want to inside me,” you say into his ear, you could feel him from underneath his pants as he grabs your ass, groaning into you as you palm him. 

“Take off your fucking clothes,” he orders, as you do it, you take off the loose t-shirt you’d been wearing to Kendall’s party off slowly, you can feel him staring at your tits, and a part of you loves it. Loves the attention you get from him. As you take off your pants from where they are bunched up from your ankles, and then the greenish-blue granny panties you wear, you watch him take his suede pants and then his boxers off. Oh god, you feel yourself thinking as you stare at him. 

He picks you up as he brings his length into your entrance, rubbing it on your clit. He keeps going, relentless before he surprises you and slips it in, tilting your head towards him so he could watch you as he fucked you. 

You hear him groan as he starts with slow thrusts, he would push in and then wait five seconds before slowly sliding out— making sure you felt every inch of him. He was too big and you felt so full, with every time he pulled out you felt like five years were taken from your life span, that time had slowed down too much. You fucking needed him.

Of course he starts going fast, rough. There were no thoughts in your mind as you arched against him, and moaned in his mouth as he kissed you. Deeply and raw, like he had everything to lose and you would disappear in a heartbeat.

Pinning your hands above your head, he continues with his pace, passionately and without bore– “You’re so good for me, I just want to be inside you all the time,” he says a grin on his face as he watches your face before glancing down looking at his dick pound into you. 

He presses kisses to your throat as he whispers, “My name’s Lukas, Lukas Matsson–” strangely enough hearing his name sends you off the edge as you moan out unintelligibly, overstimulated as he keeps on going, getting more and more erratic. 

Not long after, he pumps into you a few more times before completely spilling inside of you, collapsing on top of you, not leaving your warmth as he buries himself deeper.

You don’t say anything afterwards, you let him lay on top of you as he stays inside of you all the same. It feels like time doesn’t pass as he wraps his arms around you, “Stay the night?” he asks, all you do is nod. 

You lay in silence for a few more seconds before you tell him, “I’m on birth control, by the way, pretty fucking risky to cum inside me without asking though.”

“I wouldn’t be mad at a little me running around if I could fuck you again.”

Not saying anything, you press a kiss to his neck before tucking yourself closer into his body– finding sleep comes to you when so often it fails you.

[cr4btank]

guy whose main special interests are geography, archaeology, sociology, and the magnus archives. anyways here’s my extensive (perhaps slightly unrealistic for london i don’t know) ethnicity headcanons for tma and tmagp. most of these have little to no canon backing my Autism just told me

i’m going to reblog this with more later

TMA

jonathan sims: indo-surinamese

martin blackwood: i get canada from him ? specifically martimes, maybe nova scotia. also ethnically jewish because im both of those and can do what i want

tim stoker: predominantly vietnamese, dominican also

sasha james: st. lucian?? doesn’t feel entirely right but it’s all i’m getting

elias bouchard: english . maybe a bit portuguese

peter lukas (& lukas family) norwegian & russian??

gerard keay: greek

michael shelley: russian & serbian

basira hussain: bihari

daisy tonner: my mind wants me to say german my heart says aṉangu. she can be both

melanie king: ukrainian

oliver banks: xhosa

rosie zampano: italian & malaysian

annabelle cane: nyakyusa

gertrude robinson: german & polish

TMAGP:

sam khalid: sindhi

alice dyer (& luke): taíno (specifically cuba)

gwen bouchard: mostly english partially swedish

celia ripley: korean

teddy vaughn: yoruba

lena kelley: mestiza (guarayo)

ink5oul: tibetan???? mongol?? leaning tibet i think

colin becher: so very scottish (accidentally said irish whoops so edited this)

please (metaphorically) throw rocks at me if anything here is canonically wrong or just like . wrong in general

[ceaseless-bitcher]

Hamilton-style musical of rendition of Robert Smirke’s crew and the fallout between himself, Jonah Magnus, and the rest of them.

Ambitious Scottish upstart Jonah Magnus, plunging into the scene of higher society and academia

Interpersonal drama in the esoteric research and philosophy sphere

A power ballad aria from Smirke as he describes his grand, utopian plans for balance

Jonah seeing the wonders of this new world and getting increasingly involved in it, probably getting in some heated theoretical debates with Rayner et al. about it because, being Beholding- and Dark-aligned, their fundamental views would be diametrically opposed

A slowly-shifting musical motif for Jonah as his intentions develop over the course of the play

Barnabas pleading with Jonah through his letter; they’re in separate parts of the stage with different lightings and they can’t see each other. Jonah is reading, rather than listening to, his words

SPOTLIGHTS REMINISCENT OF EYES

Harrowing solo as Jonah sinks deeper into fearing the possibility of rituals

More below the cut because I’m going nuts about this.

I would feel like there’s too much ground to cover (c. 1809 [estimated year Jonah gets introduced to the Fears if he established the Institute in 1818 and talked Smirke into working on Millbank 1815-1821] all the way to 1867 [year of Smirke’s death and the final decommissioning of Millbank: the year in which I place Jonah’s first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown]) if it weren’t for the several decades covered in Hamilton. It provides a pretty good guide for such a varied timeline.

More insane scenes:

Contrast of Albrecht Von Closen’s 1816 letter informing Jonah of his findings at his nephew’s estate vs Dr. Johnathan Fanshawe’s 1831 letter revealing how Jonah knowingly caused Von Closen’s death by stealing his books and got him filled with eyes

Smirke watching the group he formed fall to the Fears in turn, clinging to his alliance with Jonah and therefore being blind to his own turn towards Beholding

Jonah’s financial wheedling with Mordechai Lukas and other donors for his fledgling Institute

Jonah being so gleeful about his brand new Magnus Institute in Edinburgh, after several years of compiling statements informally

HE GETS TO DELIGHT IN ALL THE SCHEDULING AND LOGISTICS!!!

Just. all the letters we have record of. I haven’t even gotten to Dr. Algernon Moss or the conflict between George Gilbert Scott and Sampson Kempthorne

PETTY architecture drama

[wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart]

tma as screenshots from my memes album (S4 edition)

the eye every time Jon stares longingly a Martins door:

Jon every time he forces a statement out of someone:

Daisy after returning from the coffin:

Peter Lukas after seeing Martin Kmommy Kissues Blackwood for the first time:

Peter Lukas in the finale:

Jon seeing a way to risk his life that may help another person in the hopes of dying in a manner that makes the people around him at least remember him as a somewhat decent human being:

Martin after he played Peter Lukas like the cheap kazoo that he is:

Jon trying to convince Martin to leave the lonely:

Jonah Magnus Seeing Jon and Martin trying to escape knowing full well that they are walking into his trap:

Jonmartin in the Scottish safehouse:

[rockcattomato]

Forsaken: A story about lighthouses, loneliness, and one other thing beginning with L.

Three months into his move to the Scottish coast, Martin is hired by Peter Lukas to deliver weekly supplies to the lighthouse a boat ride from his new home. Under one condition, he never talks to The Keeper.

I hope you enjoy!

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

Forsaken

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/B4KqjJ8 by RockCatTomato “So you’ll take the job?” Peter asks. And, honestly, Martin is in no position to refuse. *** Three months into his move to the Scottish coast, Martin is hired by Peter Lukas to deliver weekly supplies to the lighthouse a boat ride from his new home. Under one condition, he never talks to The Keeper. *** A story about lighthouses, loneliness, and one other thing beginning with L. Words: 2275, Chapters: 1/10, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Peter Lukas Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Lighthouse, Lighthouses, Lighthouse Keeper Jonathan Sims, Small Towns, Lonely!Jon, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, (as much as it can be), Backstory, Isolation read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/B4KqjJ8

[cult-of-the-eye]

I Want You by Mistki as a jmart song:

Scottish Safehouse core

pining pining pining

imagine if Jon only knew that Martin had loved him and thinks it's currently unrequited

"i hold one card/that I can't use" HE CANT TELL HIM THAT HE LOVES HIM CAUSE HE THINKS HES FRAGILE AFTER THE LONELY AND HE DOESNT WANT TO MESS UP WHAT THEY HAVE

also could be during Martin's Peter Lukas era where he's like I could tell him I love him as a last ditch attempt to make him come back but I can't do that cause it would mess everything up

I'm sorry "you're coming back and it's the end of the world"????? so fucking Scottish Safehouse core, giving Martin's on a walk and Jon's got attachment issues and sometimes wonders if he'll just never come back

"we're starting over/and I love you darling" ITS SO THEM.

The Scottish Safehouse is a chance for them to pretend they're "done, dear" with the end of the world, that they can start over and create a new little life

"you're in the house/and I am here in the car" god this is so them cause listen. tell me they're not doing silent domesticity. tell me they're not in different parts of the house pining COME ON.

"I just need a quiet place/where I can scream/how I love you" GUYS.

"i found you/I found the door/but when I stepped through/there was no floor"

It's giving Jon worrying that Martin will one day just disappear and succumb back to the lonely it's giving we've built a precarious safety but it could fall away any second now

GUYS

[maochira]

Showing my brother non-Japanese Blue Lock characters and making him guess their names, nationality/in which country they play for a team and positions. We did everyone in Bastard München, all coaches, Lorenzo and Drago from Ubers and the World Five

1. Michael Kaiser: "He looks like a real Italian. Like a femboy. What are normal Italian names..... Lorenzo" (I BURST OUT LAUGHING😭😭) Position: Left-wing forward

2. Alexis Ness: German "He looks like... like a... on first gaze I'd say Stephan" Position: midfielder

3. Bachman: German, name: Klaus, position: right fullback

4. Mensah: German, name: Alex, position: defender

5. Theo Sachs: "He looks like a real asian. Like an anime main character", name: Kim, position: defender

6. Ndiaye: Italian, name: Claudio, position: right fullback

7. Benedict Grim: German, name: Robert, position: centerback

8. Birkenstock: German, name: Lenny, position: left-wing forward

9. Ali: "This is definitely an Italian. Looks like a real Mario." Position: midfielder

10. Erik Gesner: "What does his hairdresser do professionally?? Is his hairdesser a butcher??? I swear Alligatoah's next haircut" (Alligatoah is my favourite German singer), name: Manuel, position: central midfielder

11. Igor Schneider: German, name: Felix, position: right-wing forward

12. Noel Noa: French, name: Antoine, position: striker

13. Marc Snuffy: Italian, "What nose is that.", name: Gian Luigi , position: midfielder

14. Drago (5): German, name: Marco, position: right back defender

15. Don Lorenzo: "This is definitely an Italian centerback." Name: Carlo

16. Chris Prince: German, name: Jamal, position: striker

17: Lavinho: Italian, name: Luca, position: striker

18: Julian Loki: Algerian, name: Romelu, position: midfielder

19: Leonardo Luna: German, name: Lukas, position: left-wing forward

20. Adam Blake: "To me he looks like a real Italian.", name: Christian, position: centerback

21. Pablo Cavazos: "Why does he kinda look like Deku?", "I don't know why but he really looks Scottish", name: Andrew, position: midfielder

22. Dada Silva: Brazilian, name: Gabriel, position: goalkeeper

[dear-indies]

Hi! Do you by any chance have some alt suggestions for Milo Manaheim? He just came out as a Zionist and I no longer feel comfortable using him.

Nat Wolff (1994) Ashkenazi Jewish / English, German, some Scottish, along with Portuguese Azorean, Welsh, Jersey/Channel Islander, and French.

Chella Man (1998) Hongkonger and Jewish - is deaf, trans genderqueer and pansexual (they/them) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Lucas Jade Zumann (2000) Ashkenazi Jewish / possibly German - has spoken up for Palestine!

and:

Emilio Sakraya (1996) Moroccan / Serbian.

Asa Butterfield (1997) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Jacob Elordi (1997)

Omar Apollo (1997) Mexican - is gay - has spoken up for Palestine!

Corey Mylchreest (1998) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Omar Rudberg (1998) Venezuelan - has spoken up for Palestine!

Belmont Cameli (1998)

Lee Jae Wook (1998) Korean.

Óscar Casas (1998)

Sparsh Srivastav (1999) Indian.

Kristian Ventura (1999) Filipino.

Michael Cimino (1999) Puerto Rican [Taíno] / White - has spoken up for Palestine!

Ali Hadji-Heshmati (1999) Indian - has spoken up about Palestine!

Bilal Hasna (1999) Palestinian / Punjabi.

Jayden Revri (1999) Indian, Jamaican, and White.

Marcus Scribner (2000) African-American / White.

Anthony Keyvan (2000) Filipino / Iranian.

Thomas Weatherall (2000) Kamilaroi.

Lukas von Horbatschewsky (2000) German and Nigerian - is trans.

Saint Levant (2000) Palestinian, Serbian / Algerian, French.

Ahmet Haktan Zavlak (2001) Turkish - has spoken up for Palestine!

Zethphan D. Smith-Gneist (2001) Black German.

Ahmet Haktan Zavlak (2001) Turkish - has spoken up for Palestine!

Absolutely! He's been a zionist for a while but I'm glad people are catching on.

[baobhanlore-art]

*Across The Spiderverse Spoilers*

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I'm just gonna rant a bit about whitewashing Miguel O'hara and how people don't know the difference between race and ethnicity.

Disclaimer: I am not poc. I'm white passing (Jewish whiteness is complicated) and if you are poc then I'd love to hear your perspective. I'm just repeating the views and teachings of poc figures and their analyses of media and representation.

So there's been a lot of crackering towards Miggy. It's happened to most of the poc characters, don't get me wrong, but I feel like Miguel's has fallen under the radar for the most part. But Miguel is often drawn with very light skin even though the movie has portrayed him as having light brown tan-ish skin.

This is a screenshot from the train scene. As you can see he is still very much a light skinned person, not pale but a light skinned poc. And yet somehow people still make his skin way lighter than this. Practically the same colour as me and I'm Scottish and have ridiculously sensitive skin that makes me avoid harsh sunlight. Like it's not even that dark. And the train scene is bright as hell anyways, harsh sunlight and the white train exterior reflecting onto the characters, everyone's skin was lighter so I'd say his skin tone may even be a bit darker than this.

And often the excuse is that he's half Irish. But like, do you realise how terrible of a justification that is? Zendaya is half white. Barrack Obama is half white. Halle Bailey is half white. Are they perceived as white? No. Lukas Arnold is half black. Halsey is half black. Are they perceived as white? Yes. I'm not arguing Miguel doesn't have white heritage, but Miguel, at least in ATSV, is Latino passing. Just like I'm half Jewish and half British White but look more like my white mother, with the exception of my warm undertones and dark hair, meanwhile my Dad, Aunt, Grandad and Uncles are very explicitly Jewish/Middle Eastern passing. Nobody is arguing I don't have non white genes in me and according to eugenics I'll never technically be white, but I'm white passing. Similarly, Miguel has white genes in him and his Irish heritage could very well be part of his identity (I haven't read the comics so idk) but he's Mexican passing. He has Mexican phenotypes and you are erasing them by lightening his skin.

In short, if you want to know if a character or person is white or not, ask yourself how cops or airport security would profile them. That will give you your answer.

This is something Harriyanna Hook touches on in some of her videos, she's a queen, but I think the main reason why whitewashing Miguel isn't as openly critiqued as whitewashing other ethnicities, including light skinned ones, is that light skinned and white passing Latine people are overrepresented in Hollywood and the media to the point where people who aren't even Latine can be cast as Latine characters. Case in point: Ronni Hawk. It's incredibly rare to see anyone in mainstream Hollywood who doesn't pass the paper bag test unless they're a black man, which has its own history of fetishism and abuse (Watch F.D. Signifier, he talks about this in his colourism video.) Race and ethnicity are not the same thing but they influence how you're perceived.

(This is not me saying that they don't deserve to be represented, every culture deserves attention and representation, but dark skinned Hispanic and Afro-Latine people often get erased. Miles Morales is the exception, not the rule.)

So people don't tend to pick up on the erasure of Latine features and skin colours because it's so normalised.

I don't want to call out any artists in particular, that's not cool, but if you do see an artist who lightened the skin, I think it's important you let them know that it's an issue. They're more likely ignorant than intentionally harmful, but I feel like education around this issue is still very important.

Also idk if this is an ethnic thing but please stop giving him a K-popish soft boy face. This isn't an ethnic issue, it's an artist's having same face syndrome issue, but Miggy is hot enough without you erasing his sharp facial features. Istg if it weren't for his suit half of his fanart would be unrecognisable.

[ill-either-live-or-die-alone]

hihihi hello Luka!

if your requests aren't backed up, then can I ask if you can recommend us some names/pronouns that are shadow/dark, monster, or static/glitch/tech themed? more neutral or fem leaning, but masc can work too!!

eee sure thing <3!!(also haiii!!)

Names

Eclipsa/Eclipse[Neutral][Hebrew]-Darkness;shadow;eclipse 

Umbra/Umbriel[Neutral][Latin]-“Shadow”

Ciara/Ciaran/Kiernan[Neutral][Irish;Scottish]-“little dark one”

Esmeray[Femme][Turkish]-“Dark moon”

Orpheus[Masc][Greek(mythos)]-“the darkness of the light”

Reito[Masc?Neutral?][Japanese]-“beautiful dark moon”

Lilith[Femme][Assyrian,Sumerian]-“ghost;night monster”

Scylla[Femme][Greek]-“sea monster”

Techno[Masc][Greek]-“relating to technology”

Belladonna[Femme][English from Italian]-“nightshade;beautiful women”

Eos[Neutral][Greek;Welsh]-“dawn;nightingale”

Achlys[Femme][Greek]-“Dark mists”

Nix[Neutral][Greek]-“night”

Dell[Femme][English]-“shaded valley”

Charon[Masc][Greek(Mythos)]-“shining bright admits shadows;name of the guy who took people across the river Styx”

Pronouns

Stat/Static/Static’s/Statics/Staticself 

Glitch/Glitch/Glitch’s/Glitches/Glitchself 

Mal/Function/Malfunction’s/Malfunctions/Malfunctionself 

Virus/Virus/Virus’s/Viruses/Viruself

.Ex/.Exe/.Exe’s/.Exes/.Exeself 

Bug/Bug/Bugs/Bug’s/Bugself 

Bite/Bite/Bite’s/Bites/Biteself 

Fang/Fang/Fang’s/Fangs/Fangself

Dim/Dim/Dim’s/Dims/Dimself

Shade/Shade/Shade’s/Shadeself

Crea/Creature/Creature’s/Creatures/Creatureself

Beast/Beast/Beast’s/Beasts/Beastself 

👾/👾/👾’s/👾s/👾self 

💿/💿/💿’s/💿s/💿self 

🔌/🔌/🔌’s/🔌s/🔌self

🌐/🌐/🌐’s/🌐s/🌐self

🌫️/🌫️/🌫️’s/🌫️s/🌫️self

reqs are open <3!

[twinstrangersp]

ROLE SPOTLIGHT! Rites of Descendancy Casting Call

We have some mentions of roles that haven’t been getting attention for our newest casting call for Rites of Descendancy, our upcoming fantasy filled audio drama! The casting call is linked below, so check out this post for roles that need a little more love!

First up, we have Priyala, a 19 year old who suffers from eldest child syndrome. We’re looking for an actor of South Asian/Southeast Asian descent! The characters pronouns are she/her, but the actor’s pronouns can be anything, as long as you’re comfortable with the role!

Next up, we have Saagnika, who can definitely be described as the ‘mom friend’. We’re looking for an actor of South Asian/Southeast Asian descent for this role, and again, she uses she/her pronouns, but the actor’s pronouns can be anything!

Then, we have Maon, a straight faced character who prefers bluntness over dilly-dallying. We’re looking for someone with an Irish/Celtic accent, but we’d also accept Scottish or generic fantasy! This character uses they/them pronouns.

Next is Ezra, a spicy rebellious young adult with a pension for trouble. We’re looking for a nonbinary, POC/BIPOC actor for this role, and the character uses he/they pronouns themself!

Last but not least is Luka, the younger brother of Leonardo, an 18 year old with high aspirations and a thirst for knowledge. We’re looking for a transmale actor for Luka, and the character uses he/him pronouns.

We’re so grateful for all the auditions we’ve had so far, and we can’t wait to hear more! Please be sure to share if these roles sound interesting to someone you know! Don’t forget to follow @ritesofdescendancy for updates!

[umberpath]

Hi I had a Moment while reading TMA transcripts and considered: what if the cast were cats? I definitely left out a few characters here and there, mainly because the friend I'm re-experiencing the series with is not caught up (and I wanted to show them). These are purely based off of aesthetics~

without further ado here are my choices for the cast:

Jonathan Sims: bombay (ghost tabby)

Martin Blackwood: Scottish fold (ginger)

Timothy Stoker: Gray Tabby

Sasha James: Birman

Not!Sasha: Ragdoll

Melanie King: Dilute Calico

Georgie Barker: Tortoiseshell

Basira Hussain: Norweigan Forest Cat (black)

Daisy Tonner: Kurilian Bobtail

Elias Bouchard: Siamese

Peter Lukas: Norweigan Forest cat (grey)

Nikola Orsinov: Lykoi

Jane Prentiss: Donskoy cat

Simon Fairchild: Sphynx

Gertrude Robinson: Maine Coon

Gerard Keay: tuxedo cat

Michael Shelley: Oriental Longhair

Helen Richardson: Abyssinian

Mike Crew: Russian Blue

Jared Hopworth: Siberian Cat

Annabelle Cane: cornish rex

Jude Perry: toyger cat

Juergen Leitner: persian

Breekon & Hope: completely average domestic shorthairs

Trevor Herbert: Nebelung

[msweebyness]

DuPont School for Monstrous Youths- Student-Enforced Dorm Rules, Part 1

Sometimes things happen that probably shouldn’t. Here are some rules that the kids have come up with! As always, thanks to @artzychic27 and @imsparky2002! More to come in the future! (Maybe Artzy and Sparky will join the fun! 😜)

Nino is not allowed to have his speakers during the night. The last time he did, he started blasting a Macarena/Gangnam Style Mix at 2 AM.

Ondine and Simon, just because you are half-Scottish/Irish respectively, does not give you license to incite a BAR FIGHT IN THE CAFETERIA because it makes you ‘feel at home’. (Seriously, where did those bagpipes come from?!)

Ivan, Denise: ENOUGH WITH THE ROCK-THROWING. Seriously, we’ve lost count of all the concussions.

Kim, dude, we ALL know you shed like there's no tomorrow. PLEASE, for the love of all that's holy, clean out the shower after you use it! A fur lined bathroom is NOT chic!

Nathaniel, we understand that we are not supposed to be out of our rooms after curfew. But please, for the love of all that’s good and pure, do NOT SCREECH like that in the pitch dark.

Juleka and Luka would like to request that people stop responding to them with exaggerated Transylvanian accents. And they don’t say ‘Bleh, bleh, bleh!’

If you find one of Nino or Rose’s limbs, please be a nice person and return it to them. DON’T put it anywhere indecent!

Please stop telling Adrien ridiculous things about your species’ cultures. He doesn’t want to offend anyone, so he’s likely to believe you and make a fool of himself!

The same applies for Aurore. Stop trying to convince her that if someone offers to shake your hand, they’re challenging you to a duel!

Out of courtesy to Mireille, all drains in the dorm halls are to have their installed covers on. We don’t want another incident.

DON’T TOUCH KAGAMI’S GOLD STASH.

Stop shining flashlights outside of windows so Marc will fly into them! It was only funny the first few times!

Sabrina has specified that the next person to hack her translator necklace WILL die. (Was changing all her ‘yes’es to ‘YEEEEE-UUUUUH.” really necessary?)

If you don’t want to be cursed, be mindful of when Chloé and Zoé are sleeping.

Stop trying to play matador with Cosette. They’re charging at YOU, not the cape. Your shattered ribcage is your own fault!

No trying to surprise Jean so he’ll do the Phantom Shriek™️. The custodians are getting tired of replacing the windows.

There you have it folks! Leave thoughts in the comments and reblogs!