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astroboots · 2 years

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RED FLAGS ║ PART 6

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector

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

Word Count: 7,800

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breakfasts that Marc cooks for you.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s strangely domestic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s another Thursday night.

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

Marc Safe. Back tomorrow.

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

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

Whatever the reason, you decide to text him back.

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

Marc I can’t tell you.

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

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

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

Marc I’m not a secret agent.

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

You That sounds like something a secret agent would say

Marc It’s a little more complicated than that.

You That’s not a no...

Marc Good night.

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

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

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

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

Marc then, not Steven.

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

“I killed his fish,” he announces.

“Wha– Gus?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Things got… complicated,” Marc says.

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

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

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

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

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

“Come inside, Marc,” you interrupt.

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

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

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

Stubborn as always.

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

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

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

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

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

Sam sure fam! how many u need?

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

Marc however, does raise an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate the DLR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine,” he says.

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

“Just hold onto me until we get there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marc spends the whole time staring down Sam with suspicion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, we’re not doing that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You and the fish seemed close.”

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

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

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

Oh. It’s a joke. Marc is joking.

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

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

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

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

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

The only one…

You’re the only one he has.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t come.

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

What the fuck are you doing!?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t take the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Keep it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ CONTINUE ~

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

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

Dedications:

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

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

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

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ctitan98official · 3 months

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What each RE8 lady smells like

Okay, yes there have been jokes going around about Alcina smelling like lavender and the girls reeking of blood and death, but… These are my head canons for how I think they smell. Let’s get into it!

Alcina:

Definitely wears very nice perfume in my opinion. Not too much, just a very light spritz of it.

I also think she might smell like roses. She does wear three of them on her dress, so… Why not? Plus, it does seem pretty romantic.

She obviously does smell a bit like cigarette smoke, but I don’t think it would be too overwhelming. Just a hint of it.

She might also have the faintest scent of alcohol on her because of how much wine she drinks. She does run a winery too so that might have something to do with it.

Donna:

I think Donna smells like flowers.

She loves to garden and tend to plants so it makes sense that she would smell of them.

I also think she smells like fresh herbs and delicious Italian food when she cooks.

She loves to read, so I think she also smells of books and paper. She probably likes to sit in a cozy nook nestled in between a pile of old books and the smell just kind of surrounds her. It’s pleasant and not overpowering.

She might also smell like cedar and other woods when she’s working on dolls.

Miranda:

I don’t think Miranda wears perfume. She finds it distracting.

I think that you can often smell the faint burn of antiseptic on her after she has finished her work in the lab.

She also loves to drink tea, so I think she might have a slight herbal smell like old grey or white tea.

Her home also smells of different kinds of tea and it kind of just clings to her.

Maybe she smells like traditional Romanian dishes when she cooks.

She is very obsessed with hygiene and cleaning, so I think that she would also smell of light soaps.

Bela:

Like her mother, I think Bela wears nice perfumes.

For some reason, she strikes me as smelling of vanilla and warm spices like cinnamon.

Basically, anything in chai tea: Cloves, cardamom, cinnamon, star anise… You get the picture.

She smells like fall. Just very comforting scents. However, I don’t think she smells like apples or pumpkin. I just don’t get that vibe.

I think that she also might smell of old parchment and books considering how much time she spends in the library.

Cassandra:

Cass loves to be outside and go exploring. I think she would smell very earthy.

She smells like the forest, so maybe she has a pine tree scent going on?

I also think that she smells like freshly fallen rain. It’s an invigorating scent and it’s kind of refreshing.

I think she would like crisp and clean smells, so I think that she likes the smell of peppermint.

Obviously, with how much time she spends in the dungeon, that musky aroma starts clinging to her after being down there for a while. But I think she likes to freshen up once she’s done so she can kind of keep that part of her life distanced.

Daniela:

I think that Dani has a very sweet scent, like sugar cookies or birthday cake. It matches her personality.

I think she also wears perfume, but she likes to steal Bela’s and wear it instead of the ones that Alcina gave her.

She is so bright and happy. I think she might also smell like citrus or other summery scents.

Maybe a hint of cocoa butter. I think she likes to moisturize and keep her skin healthy.

Dani likes to soak and take nice long baths. As far as how she smells right after freshening up, it depends on what soaps she has available, but she’s not picky.

Masterlist

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kyra-mana · 8 months

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DnD with resident lover

Mother Miranda

Miranda was busy going over a few emails at a table in the library. She was reading a particularly long one, as she fiddled with the corvin ring on her finger. It was Saturday, and she'd normally be going over emails at home, or in her office. But, Miranda required a cold environment and the school's AC was out. Her house wasn't much better. Her daughter was being loud and she couldn't focus. So she called Donna to babysit while she worked. The library would be a cooler place due to open walls and high ceilings, but she would also have guaranteed peace for it was the weekend and the library was a naturally quiet place to begin with. Sadly her peace didn't last long. She kept having to re-read a paragraph because of some incessant giggling. Huffing, she angrily slapped her laptop shut and stuffed it into its case. She quickly stood and stormed over to the source of the sound. Peering into a nook she'd long forgotten about, the sight she was met with, shocked her. In the nook she saw you and Mia? In a room that was coated wall to wall in papers. You two looked so engrossed in the mess that you didn't even notice her presence. Miranda smiled, not a cruel smirk, but an actual smile. She merely walked into the nook and sat down on the floor next to you and Mia, announcing her presence. Two pairs of eyes locked onto Miranda. Your gaze is full of embarrassment, and Mia's full of shock. She raised a brow and smirked.

"What? Can't I see what my students are up to?" You stammered for a response and Mia simply looked annoyed.

"Seriously?" Mia quipped.

"Do you have a problem with my presence, Miss Baker?" Mia rolled her eyes and looked back at the mess of papers on the floor.

After a few seconds of silence Miranda spoke up.

"Dungeons and Dragons?" Mia nodded "Interesting." She stood and headed for the exit of the nook, pausing at the door frame. "I'll be joining you two next session. Every Dungeon needs a master." Miranda smirked and left, leaving you and Mia stunned.

Alcina Dimitrescu

The music professor was actively storming her way into the library, her frustration palpable. It was a particularly hot Saturday on campus. Alcina usually didn't mind the heat, since her daughters often ran cold in their youth, so the heater was always on in the penthouse. But, the air duct that led to her office was in need of repair, so the atmosphere in the room was particularly thick. She entered the library, setting a stack of papers and a glass of her favorite rouge drink on a table. She sat down with a soft groan. Oh, how she hated grading papers. She's a music teacher, hands on learning is much simpler and by far one of the best ways to learn. But, alas, the headmistress has her orders. Pulling out her half moon glass from its leather case, that sat in her pocket, pushing it up the bridge of her nose. She graded these papers for a while, before a soft giggle caught her attention. She ignored it for the most part until the constant whispers halted her train of thought. She set down the paper she was grading. Standing as she grabbed her glass of wine. She sneaked around the library until her honey colored eyes glanced at something in a small hidden nook. The sight is both adorable and intriguing. You and Mia were sitting on the floor, walls lined with graph paper, a wide smile on both your faces. You had a bad habit of getting on her nerves, but she couldn't deny your determination. Alcina cleared her throat.

"Miss Baker, Miss Lover." You and Mia jumped at her voice.

"Professor Dimitrescu." You stammered. She chuckled at your flustered state and removed her glasses, stuffing them back in the case and into her jacket pocket.

"So, what is this mess that has you two holed up in the campus library on a Saturday afternoon?" Mia smirked, looking over at you.

"It's called Dungeons and Dragons. It's a fantasy game that only uses pen and paper. The only limit is your imagination." Mia smiled as she held up her character sheet. Alcina hummed in response.

Her eyes scanned over the floor. Heavily analyzing the stacks of graph and lined paper. They eventually set their sights on your character sheet. She read the paper. Something was vaguely familiar about it. It was a female vampire, her hair was short, lushish black curls, amber colored irises, milky white skin. Looking over she read the height and name of the character. “9’6” and “Alicia Dimitri.” She shrugged it off and looked back over at Mia.

"Interesting. Explain to me." She sat down at a nearby chair facing the two of you.

Mia was busy explaining everything, your soul had returned to your body by this point. You added quick quips and comments into the conversation. Confusion slowly crept up into her eyes, but she saw how invested you were in this. It warmed her heart seeing you so happy. She shook her head and raised her hand to silence Mia.

"Thank you. I shall leave this up to you two for the time being. But, it's nice to see students actually spending time with each other in person, rather than on that dreadful technology." Alcina sneered, but it was soon replaced with a smile as she stood. Tussling your hair before leaving back for her earlier spot in the library. Pulling out her glasses as she returned to grading the assignments. She may not understand the game, but she so does enjoy seeing you so joyful.

Bela Dimitrescu

Bela was wandering throughout the library. Looking for a book to enjoy her free afternoon with, which was rare due to her many responsibilities as student council president, and over preparer. But, there was no test due, and no student required help because of your overwhelming desire to please her. Her eyes gazed shelf after shelf, looking for a book you recommend to her after a particular night of passion. 'Harry Potter.' The way your eyes lit up as you described and rambled on about the plot. She'd never admit it, but your smile always made her heart flutter and cheeks burn. Her eyes passed over the book as she was trapped in her thoughts. She shook her head, removing herself from her train of thought. She plucked the book from the shelf, 'The Order of the Phoenix.' She groaned at the realization of it not being the first in the series.

"It must be checked out." She huffed angrily and shoved back onto the shelf.

As she stormed towards the exit of the library, she heard a familiar voice whispering in the small hidden room. She stopped and approached the entrance. She peered inside the nook. Her eyes gazing over the papers that coated the room's walls. They eventually land on you and Mia as you guys sit in the middle of the room. They haven't noticed her yet, you two seem invested in the game. Her eyes locked onto a paper, which she knew was your character sheet by your terrible handwriting. All she makes out in the chicken scratch is, 'Bella.' You rose onto your knees, raising one hand into the air, curling your fingers into a claw, the other being occupied by a book that you read allowed to Mia. Her eyes filled with wonderment as she realized what you two were playing. Dungeons and Dragons. It was a favorite of hers when she was younger, before the incident with the university's headmistress, Miranda. She knocked on the wall, informing the two of you of her presence. Your eyes lit up as you noticed her. You quickly stood up and smiled.

"Hey, Bela. Do you need something?" Bela's face reddened at your question. She knew what she wanted, but for the first time in a while she was embarrassed to ask for it, more like demand, usually.

"You're playing Dungeons and Dragons, right?" Your eyes glowed brighter at her knowledge of the game.

"Yeah! Wanna play?" You questioned. By this point Mia was already preparing another character sheet base for Bela, who allowed her cold visage to break as she smiled softly. Joining you and Mia on the floor, sinking into the sea of papers and magic.

Cassandra Dimitrescu

Cassandra was wandering among the many shelves of the university's library. She was searching for another copy of 'Romeo and Juliet' for you since she ruined your copy when she flooded the dormitory. She sipped her coffee as she leaned her weight onto one foot, searching for the book as she quickly read the spines of the book. She grabbed a book off the shelf. It was an older copy, but it'll have to do for her star. Her Romeo. Cassandra's cheeks flushed a soft rose as she thought of the pet names she often calls you. Hers. Her star. Her bright, shining star. She shook her head to escape her thoughts and tucked the book under her arm. She looked back up at the shelf. She wanted to give you a gift, since the night you helped her in her dorm. She knew you were a big nerd. Her nerd. So she made her way into the fantasy and science fiction section of the library. Tracing her fingers along the binds of the books at arms reach as she searched. She plucked a book off the bookcase. She read the cover. It looked interesting. 'Fahrenheit 451.' She hummed as she read the Blurb. After deciding that it would be a good gift, she made her way over to the check-out desk by the exit to check out both books. As she walked, she overheard a familiar voice. She approached the small nook. Looking around the room at the sheets of paper scattered around the floor and pinned to the walls. Her eyes locked onto you and Mia. Your eyes were bright and filled with wonderment. Concentration etched on your face as you thought. You spoke to Mia, something about a potion and a gold payment. Your voice was calm and smooth. It amazed Cassandra how well you could adapt with challenges. As she watched, it quickly became clear to Cassandra that this was an improv of sorts. She leaned against the wall as she watched the show. Quickly getting sucked into the story you and Mia were creating. She smiled, but reluctantly tore her eyes away from you two. Turning away and returning back to her quest of thanking you. She set down the books on the librarians desk. Waiting for her to check out the books. Once that was done she left the library, heading to her dorm. Upon entering her living room, her mind was dragged back to the night you stayed with her. Shaking her head, she put the copy Romeo and Juliet aside and pulled out a roll of wrapping paper. She paused as she remembered the scene from the library. You were so absorbed in your world of paper and pen, it reminded Cassandra how resilient you were.

Daniela Dimitrescu

Daniela had just returned from her lunch date with her sisters, at this new American styled cafe. She bought an extra milkshake for you. She didn't know what kind you'd like, so she just grabbed a strawberry with extra whipped cream. She knows you normally spend your Saturday afternoons with Mia, doing something that involves a lot of paper. Once she reached the campus entrance, she hopped off her skateboard and tucked it under her arm. As she walked towards the library, being careful of not spilling the shake. As she walked through the halls she wondered why you always preferred her company. While her sisters, annoying, were far more well known and popular compared to her more laid back self. Cassandra was a dramatic diva and best actress in the theater club. Bela was a cold workaholic and the student council president. Hell, even her mother was an option. She's a looker and a hard worker. Daniela was chill, she often drank with Angie and hung with the more chill people on campus. You? You weren't innocent, but you always had this doe-eyed look on your face. It always amazed Daniela how you tended to hang with her best friend, or chill with her. She walked around the library. Admiring the architecture of the library. She doesn't spend much time in the library, so it's a pleasant change of scenery. She eventually found you scurrying away and disappearing into the wall. Confused, she peered into where you seemed to faze into the wall. She peered into the wall, finding a small hidden nook. Looking around, she saw you and Mia setting up something. Coating the walls in graph paper. She watched you two for a few minutes as you set up. She chuckled quietly and stepped into the room. Leaning against the wall

"Hey you two." You jumped and Mia's neck cracked at how fast she looked at Daniela.

"Hey dani!" Mia smiled.

"What's up?" You chimed in.

"Nothing much. What are you two doing? I've always wondered why one person needed so much paper." You blushed and looked down at the paper covered floor.

"Ever heard of D&D?" Mia said.

"That nerd game?" Mia nodded.

Daniela chuckled and cringed as her hand began to freeze. "Oh! Hey, I got you a shake." She holds out the shake she got you. "Didn’t know what you'd want so I just grabbed a strawberry."

She smiled and sat down next to you and Mia. Watching you enjoy the shake. She leaned against the far wall and closed her eyes. Listening to you and Mia play.

Donna Beneviento

Donna loved the library, especially the grand essence of the university's library. Normally she would get overwhelmed in places like this, that's why the florist she ran was relatively small. But books had a way of making her feel so powerful. The words that were contained in the millions of pages in this library, she nearly squealed in excitement every time she entered the room. She made her way over to a new section of the library. Fantasy. Normally she'd stay in the nonfiction or the occasional horror, but Fantasy was a genre she didn't really enjoy, being the realist she is. But, one day she saw you reading a book called, '1984.' You were often reading it in between rehearsals with Cassandra, when she was working with other members of the theater club, for the upcoming play. She had also seen the cover of the book in her bag when you came to visit her shop for an occasional cup of tea. She met you through her niece, Angie. With her being the social butterfly, and you being her roommate, it would always end up in disaster. But, she was glad her niece could bond with someone over something else, other than alcohol. She knew of a small nook that she'd hide in when she didn't want to exit the grand building, but also be given peace. She plucked a book off the shelf and read the title. 'Weyward.' She found it interesting and approached the hidden nook. She paused upon hearing a giggle and paused, peering into the room. There you were, sitting on the floor with Mia. Surrounded by paper. She immediately recognized the messy organization and stacks of paper as Dungeons and Dragons. She loved the game, despite not being a fantasy fan. She looked around the library and back at you two. She cleared her throat and spoke up. Her raspy voice was barely above a whisper

"Can I join?"

@resident-lover

(Sorry there's no Angie. I had no ideas for her. let me know if you want her or not)

#mother miranda #alcina dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #donna beneviento #resident lover

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kaistrashbin · 3 months

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Some doodles of Angie in the Magic Prof. Donna au! Angie is Donna's raccoon familiar who acts as her little assistant during classes (and pretty much everything else) if you notice a slight change in the sweater design no you didn't...my hand started cramping after the first one ok..

Someone commented that my Angie reminds them of Tom Nook so now she regularly tries to sell whatever she can get her tiny lil grabby paws on to students and faculty of the magic school XD

Closeups below the cut

#my art #art #digital art #artists on tumblr #angie beneviento #racoon angie #resident evil #resident evil village #re8 #re8 village #resident evil au #doodle #ms paint #resident evil 8 au #re8 magic au

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acupofqueercoffee · 1 year

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“Touch me with a kiss, feel me on your lips”

Donna Beneviento x White Fox Reader

cw : fluff // donna’s protective as well as needy little fox // a hint of a smut // not explicit but explicitly suggestive // loving sisters donna x alcina

ao3 — https://archiveofourown.org/works/42211659/chapters/108292656

so, i was inspired

Despite the frosty coldness of the winter morning, Donna could feel nothing but heavenly warmth. Around her body in a tangled poetic mess were long lithe limbs, an exquisitely sweet body nestled against her side.

Like a moth to a flame, her fingers found themselves gravitating towards the crown of your head, swimming amongst your silky smooth strands. Charcoal black nails, a sharp contrast to a forest of snow white mane.

As she relished the feeling akin to sinking one’s fingers into soft satin, there bloomed a heart-heaving, butterfly-inducing sensation of moist, delicate lips teasing the tender skin of her under jaw. The hummingbird flutter of her pulse immediately escalated to full throttle throbs once you emitted a soft sleepy hum against her skin.

It had been some time since the woodland predicament in which she had found herself, and subsequently the lovely discovery that had come as a shockingly sweet surprise.

“Donna.”

Your utterance of her name had been nothing short of ambrosia to her ears.

“Neve?”

She had asked, and you had nuzzled your cheek against what little portion of skin that was peeking out from under her veil. If your uncanny resemblance to House Beneviento’s much anticipated visitor had not been proof enough, then your actions had. You were indeed her darling little Neve. Snow, it meant in Italian. A name befitting you who had fur the colour of pure unsullied white.

She did not mind that at that moment in time, you were sullied crimson, bathed in blood. In fact, she could pay no mind to it whatsoever, for no sooner had she swayed a wee bit on her feet than she was instantly swept off her feet, both literally and metaphorically, into steady arms. You did it so effortlessly, so unexpectedly that she could not contain the surprised little squeak that went flying past her lips, or the arms that wounded themselves around your delicate neck.

Underneath the dark veil hid cherry dusted cheeks as the doll-maker was held close to your bare frame. It was delightfully reminiscent of the way Donna had carried you in your fox form. But a tiny little thing then, had now transformed into a charming woman. One thing that had not changed was your majestic beauty.

It was now clear as day that despite your adorably dainty fox form, you were magnificently strong if the way you had carried her without so much as a struggle, or the apparent display of your breathtaking biceps were anything to go by. Donna would not have guessed otherwise that hidden beneath your fluffy coat were muscles that had come with years of foraging in the forest.

You were unequivocally pretty, but there, too, lay a hint of handsomeness in you that made you all the more otherworldly.

Donna’s bed had become your bed ever since your arrival at the Beneviento estate, and it remained so even when the new revelation came to light. The only difference was that replacing the wet little nose buried in the nook of her neck every night were heavenly warm lips nuzzling her pulse point.

Donna did not mind you always getting all cosy up against her. With you, displays of affection came easily, naturally to her. More often than not, she would find herself initiating bodily contacts as she had when you were a fox, a scratch on your sweet head, fingers combing through soft healthy hair, and fox or human, you revelled in her affections all the same.

You still said few even as a human, and Donna, not being one for words, appreciated it. Be that as it may, her usual anxiousness around people was void around you. You made Donna anything but perturbed. With you, she felt at home.

Friendly faced and sweet souled though you were, what had transpired in the woods had left you tremendously protective of Donna. If Donna disappeared from your line of sight, you would seek her instantly, head curiously tilting a touch as those miraculously mismatched eyes follow her every movement.

A sweet little puppy, that was how you behaved with Donna, but around people whom you assumed a threat to her, you became a frighteningly daunting fox.

One fine morning, the doll-maker had brought you along to Castle Dimitrescu, when she journeyed there to indulge in tea-time conversations with her sister. Her nieces had boisterously approached her to greet her as they usually did, but you had intervened, standing protectively in front of her as you bared your teeth in a menacing snarl. A low growl rumbled in your throat. However, with Donna’s gentle hand atop your head, the tension in your body instantly ebbed away.

Later that same day, a maid from Castle Dimitrescu whom, Donna noticed, had been looking at you with lovesick puppy eyes since their arrival, purposefully as if on accident had spilled hot tea onto her. In a wink of an eye, following a flurry of snowy hair whipping past Donna, the culprit was shoved to the floor as you pounced on the girl.

There subsequently reverberated an agonised scream in the room, and Donna supposed if it was not for her own pained little gasp reaching your ears, there would have been nothing stopping you from tearing the poor thing to shreds, except that, you were on her side as swiftly as you had disappeared, fretting over her. Eyes, emerald and sapphire pools, ridden with staggering concern.

She dropped a gentle pat atop your head, managed a convincing smile. “I’m okay, Neve.”

That seemed to placate you, albeit only marginally. Arms locking around the doll-maker’s waist, you had buried your face in her laps, extremely cautious in your actions as if you could cause her any harm. If anything, Donna could not help the belly butterflies that appeared to have gone downright feral at your lovely little gesture.

Needless to say, your unhinged reaction to the maid had not only predictably awed her sister, the matriarch of the castle, but also earned the respect of her three untamed daughters. Although Donna had not gained any serious injuries, the instigator of what little wound she had sustained on the other hand, had not been as lucky, being immediately dragged into the dark labyrinths of the castle by her nieces at her sister’s command.

At the same time, you garnering the favour and awe of the three girls translated into recurring visits to Castle Dimitrescu for the weekly rendezvouses of you, her nieces and Angie. It warmed the doll-maker’s heart that her beloved fox fitted perfectly into her little world of horrors and eccentricities.

It was then that her fond reminiscence was interrupted. Shifting in the doll-maker’s arms, cerulean blue and juniper green eyes hazy with the remnants of sleep had gazed lovingly into her own, a sunshine smile on your lovely lips injecting warmth into her body.

“Well, hello there, my sweet Neve.” She husked, her own voice deep, and you hummed happily, “Hmm…Donna.” , as soon as her thumb found the apple of your cheek, applying soft, delicate caresses.

For breakfast, Donna made her darling little fox’s favourite, piping hot peach tart fresh out of the oven, and using those sweet presents you had brought her coupled with a vintage gifted to her by her sister, a decadent pot of berries poached in red wine.

The intricacies of the preparation were nothing compared to the unadulterated childish glee on your angelic face, that she got to witness as you tucked into her baked goods with gusto.

However, you were behaving rather oddly today. It was so unlike you not to finish the whole pie, not to mention a mere slice of it, by yourself. You had had only a bite or two of the pie, and merely a spoonful of the berries before you left them altogether, in order to find yourself at Donna’s feet, head in her laps.

How strange.

“Is my cara Neve full already?”

“No.” Coming out of your hiding spot, you had sought the doll-maker’s face. “Hungry. Donna.”

“Don’t worry about me. It’s all for you.” Her fingers slipped into your lily white strands, gingerly tucking them behind your ear. “Angie can have pancakes when she wakes up.”

“Not food.” To her absolute bewilderment, following an adamant shake of your head, there appeared a frustrated little furrow between your eyebrows. “Hungry…for Donna.” If only for a fleeting moment, it had surprised her when you frantically climbed into her laps after divulging your desire, but she held you all too willingly once the meaning behind your words sank in, caging your delicate waist in her dexterous digits.

“Very hungry. It hurts.” When you repeated, there was desperation in your voice. Your eyes, oh those strangely peculiarly addictive eyes, were dewy with want, promise of oncoming tears shimmering in the first rays of sunlight streaming through the window.

“Donna…hurts.” Straddling her thighs, your forehead fell against hers, lips a whisker away, and Donna was compelled to capture them in her own, “Shhhh…it’s okay, Neve.” , cooing against kiss-swollen lips. “It’s okay. Donna’s got you.”

With the delicious distraction mounted on her thighs, it was a miracle that she could vaguely recall the informations concerning foxes that she had researched following your arrival into her life.

If your odd behaviour along with the searing moistness she could feel seeping through her garment were any indications, then, it was unmistakably that time of the year for foxes, with this wildly excited little fox in her lap being no exception.

Whining sweetly and gyrating your hips desperately, you sought her mouth once more, savouring her for all the doll-maker was worth.

You tasted as heavenly as you looked, Donna decided, and drunk on your taste, with her long frayed restraint snapped, she had greedily devoured her scrumptious little fox to her heart’s content.

Needless to say, it was no surprise that she could not take you to Castle Dimitrescu for your weekly rendezvous.

By the time next week arrived and they finally paid a visit to the Castle, seeing the miscellany of maroon and indigo blooms on your neck and chest, that had been left exposed by the sundress Donna had tailored for you, Alcina had remarked mischievously.

“My my little sister, I didn’t peg you for a ravenous lover.”

Smiling a meek yet proud smile, Donna’s fingers had surreptitiously sneaked onto the spot on her neck where beneath the dark fabric lay a beautiful blossom of dark crimson, indicating that she, too, was irrevocably yours as you were hers.

#donna beneviento #donna beneviento x reader #donna x reader #lady donna beneviento #lady beneviento #resident evil #resident evil donna #dollmaker #fanfic #character x reader #a hint of a smut #fluffy #protective

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ranchracoon · 13 days

Text

Ch. 14 Breakdown

TW: Trauma, Abuse, Description of wounds

Your heart was thudding in your ears, you couldn't differentiate whether it was from running or from seeing Donna unmasked. The other half that had remained hidden looked similar to her arm. What caught you the most by surprise is her other eye was entirely white. The scar tissue of her face traveled over her eye, across her jaw, and down her neck. Donna tensed her jaw as the two of you stood there in a thick tension, she shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. She shook her head violently and turned away, her hands shook from how hard she gripped the edge of her desk.

"No...not these again!" She yelled as she swiped her arms across the desk sending the last bits of materials onto the floor.

"You're not real." Donna said loud enough for you to hear.

"You're not real." She repeated like a mantra.

You took a few steps toward her cautiously, when you reached her she jumped at the contact of your hand on her back. She looked you over surprised, you couldn't help but stare at the stark contrast of her black and white eyes.

"You're...not real." Donna whispered less confidently.

You reached up a hand but she caught it by the wrist, her blood-shot, obsidian eye darted from your hand to you before the realization set in. Both of her eyes started to water. Donna's grip on your wrist loosened and she dropped her hand allowing you to reach up. She flinched when your thumb got near, but relaxed after you paused then continued to wipe the tear away and settle your hand against her scarred cheek.

"You're..." She started.

"I'm here Donna."

Her lips crashed into yours causing your heart to skip a beat, but you refused to let her pull away; the moment she realized she wasn't wearing her mask, this would be ruined. Her lips tasted salty from how much she cried, the thought of her being so hurt over you leaving made tears begin to well in your own eyes. You wrapped both arms around her neck, tightening your fists on her hair as her hands slipped around your waist, closing the space between you and her. You leaned up on your tiptoes, naturally inviting her to slide her arms underneath your thighs and lift you onto the desk. Both of your breathing became heavier, she never broke the kiss and only pushed to deepen it as you locked your legs around her. Now she couldn't escape you.

You pulled away from the kiss, she chased after it which trailed along your neck, her hot breath emanating against it. Goosebumps broke over your skin as you felt her burrow her face against the nook of your neck. It felt as if Donna was trying to mold into you and breathe in every bit of your smell. You brushed your fingers through her hair; the closeness allowed you to feel her body tremble. Her grip was borderline painful but you weren't about to tell her to let go.

"What are you doing here? If Mother Miranda finds out.."

"She won't." You interrupted, "I came because... I had to see you. I need you to know that I'm not leaving you."

"She took you away from me... why would she take you away?" Donna asked aloud.

"I'm sure she had her reasons. I don't exactly have a perfect track record with her right now. The important thing is, I'm here now."

Donna only responded by further burying her face into you. Her jaw trembled with the sobs she tried so desperately to hold back. After a moment you cleared your throat to grab her attention.

"Donna...Why did you think I wasn't real?" You questioned.

Donna tensed, in response you tightened your hold on her with your legs as she shifted uncomfortably. She sighed defeated, and flipped her head just enough to face away from you but still kept it against your shoulders.

"After my mother passed...I used to see her everywhere. She was so lifelike, and I wanted her to be back so badly that at points I couldn't tell what was reality. It went away...eventually...with the help of Miranda. I haven't had anything like it since...but I thought..I thought I was again..." She whispered.

"What happened to you?" You asked cautiously.

Donna struggled against you, she jerked hard enough that she broke free of your grasp with little resistance. The expression on her face was unreadable, did your question make her angry? She looked away but you saw the muscles tense in her jaw. She walked around the destroyed workshop, kicking materials softly with her foot. You remained sitting on the desk, not wanting to further upset her.

"What did Alcina tell you?" Donna finally asked.

"Only that she's your aunt. She said it wasn't her story to tell." You answered.

Donna fiddled with her gloves before removing them and picking at her nails, she began to pace back and forth as she pondered what to say next. She looked equally surprised and confused as her gaze never left the floor. She had carved a path through the destruction enough to safely pace. The tension in her jaw never faltered, even as she came to an abrupt stop in front of you.

"You really want to know?" She asked quietly.

"Yes." You answered.

She looked up at you, her eye searching your face, "why?" She asked sharply.

You sucked in a sharp breath, the words of Alcina playing back in your mind as you looked at Donna's beautifully exposed face. You barely knew her, yet you can't escape the feeling that you've known her your whole life. In the few precious moments you've had with her, time seemed to still and it was only you and her in the whole world. You knew deep down that you didn't want to leave this village, unless she came with you.

You reached up once again to caress her exposed face. She recoiled from the touch and brought her hand up, only now realizing she wasn't wearing her mask. Her eye widened in fear but you reacted quicker before she could run off. You grabbed each wrist forcefully and yanked her back toward you. S

"Because I love you Donna." You answered.

Donna's face contorted into shock, she blinked a few times before she looked down at her hands, "don't say things you don't mean."

"I never do."

Donna met your gaze again as she took long, deep breaths. She stood in the uncomfortable silence for a long time before you saw her shoulders begin to shake. You waited patiently, releasing her hands so she could step back and hug herself. You created space for her to grieve in the rawness of her past, which would be a privilege to have her invite you into. When she was finally ready, she sat on the floor with her knees tucked, forming a protective barrier between herself and the pain.

"It started off like every other night.."

Her father had come home drunk, again, and this time he was in a ripe mood. Normally her mother could hide Donna away and take whatever punishment was doled, but this time she wasn't enough. When he had his fill, he then turned toward Donna. He backed her into a corner and in her attempt to run, she hit the work desk and spilled acid all over the floor. In his blinding rage, he grabbed the remaining acid and splashed it over her. She tried to shield herself from the blow, but it was futile against the burning liquid. The sensation was so intense, she instinctively fell to the floor, which drenched her entire side in what had already spilled.

When the priestess was finally called by a worried villager who heard Donna's screams, the scene she found was nothing short of horrific: Donna's father was passed out on the couch, while Donna could be heard moaning, still on the floor covered in blood and flesh dripping from her arm and face. Her voice was sparse from screaming, and her mother laid motionless in the living room in her own puddle of blood. The priestess quickly whisked Donna away, grafting any salvageable areas of tissue, but that was all she could do except make Donna as comfortable as possible. She lost sight permanently in her eye, and her father reminded her every day how horrifically disfigured she was now.

Despite it all, no one would take her. No one wanted to cross her father, so she was forced to live with him once again. From then on, she wasn't allowed outside the manor at all. She wasn't even allowed to go to the funeral, and her father had the gall to lie and say her mother died from a disease. Anger boiled inside Donna, she never felt so much hatred coursed through her, and she knew she could not allow him to continue on after he caused so much darkness and destruction. All she had to do was wait, knowing he would fall back into his old routine. When her father was drunk one night, he wandered to the back of the manor. Donna wasn't about to throw away her shot. No one could hear him scream over the sound of the waterfall. The villagers didn't know he was ever gone, because Donna had secretly been learning his craft so she seamlessly picked up where he left off.

As Donna spoke you creeped toward her until you sat across from her on the floor. She stopped shaking, and stared at the ground. Her voice became monotone yet her face contorted in discomfort. You took a deep breath and let the information consume you. You needed a minute to process how traumatic that must have been for her, and how hard it must have been to be alone ever since. You leaned over and took Donna into your arms. She remained curled up but she leaned her weight into you. I could feel her body relax from its fight or flight state, and she began shaking in your arms, knowing that you were capable of carrying some of the burden she has single handedly shouldered for all this time.

"I'm not worthy of your love..someone who looks like me..I'm ugly...a monster" she whimpered.

"If I can't call myself ugly, you're not allowed to either." You said sternly.

"That's because you're perfect."

"Donna, whatever your middle name is, Beneviento, no one is perfect. But a monster wouldn't have left me a book on flowers, or taught me to sew, and certainly wouldn't have thrown a tantrum over me leaving. Monsters aren't capable of showing that level of kindness and compassion."

"I didn't throw a tantrum." Donna whined.

You looked around the room, "so this is your version of not throwing a tantrum? I would definitely hate to see you actually throw one then."

A laugh bubbled through and Donna's shoulders shook from it; the vibrations caused you to giggle.

"I...may have thrown a little tantrum." Donna admitted.

"A little?!"

"A...big tantrum."

The two of you sat there in comfortable silence for a moment before Donna shifted backward to look at you. She took your hands into her own, examining the back of your hands and fingers thoroughly as you watched the gears in her mind turn. She finally settled both of your hands into her lap when she dropped her legs and crossed them.

"I don't care what Mother Miranda or Alcina say...stay here with me. Just until the morning and I'll get you back before they know you were ever gone." Donna begged.

You chewed on your lip in thought. Should you stay the night or return to the castle? In your gut, you know what the right answer is. You sighed and clutched Donna's hands.

"Okay." You answered.

#resident evil village #re8 #donna benviento x reader #donna beneviento #x reader #resident evil women #resident evil fanfiction #trauma

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