#ran the goldfish

[hummingbird-games]

who wants to steal my laptop and hammer out the rest of these outlines??

anyone???

...any takers???

...what do you mean I have to do this mYSELF!!!!

[merfolkotd]

merfolk of the day: kanetou ran from shinkaigyo no anko-san

[trivialbob]

Every month I get a few new followers. Most are bogus. It doesn’t really affect me, but I still take time to block the commercial and adult sites. Does anyone really follow back any of these accounts?

I simply don’t get why people spend time setting up what I call “hollow” social media accounts. Years ago I would have been a little bit impressed by an influx of followers. Now I know it’s bots or people trying to game some statistics or whatever.

Several years ago I opened an account at a site so I could view some auctions. To cut down on garbage accounts, the site charges a one-time fee of $1, payable by credit card. I know the site is legitimate, so I paid my dollar.

I wonder what would happen if Tumblr charged a small, one time set-up fee or a nominal annual fee, just something so people have some skin in the game. My hope is it would cut down on the hollow accounts.

Personally, I’d pay it. And this is coming from a guy who loves to save money. I value the platform and all the real people I’ve met (in person or electronically), people who generally post original content.

[lemonofthevalley]

bribe be upon ye

yay no more divorce love wins etc etc <3

[loverboydotcom]

went through a bunch of my old stuff today and cant stop thinking about this page from my apparently official madagasar: escape 2 africa (2008) diary like all day i've been looping in my head "The most interesting scene was: The plane crash"

[maythray]

WAIT DUH CUP POST 7A COULD USE A WHEELCHAIR

[nonranghaes]

heads up! dad!cheol au.

seungcheol can't stop watching the way you interact with his son nowadays. he thinks you're in a miracle in the oddest way: you work from home and can watch his son if he needs you to, and his son fully adores you like you're family. today, he had asked if you could come over and watch his son (still recovering from a cold) while he ran to the grocery store. he promised you lunch and payment on top of it, and now that he's finished with lunch... he should be getting you both to come eat.

instead, he's just watching the way you're sitting at his son's craft table with him. he's sitting in your lap, little hands gripping crayons as he talks you through the fish he's drawing now (he's been in this 'all things aquatic' phase for as long as seungcheol can remember). and you're just nodding along, listening so attentively like this is the coolest thing you've ever heard.

seungcheol calls for his son, kneeling down and opening his arms. "let's go eat lunch."

immediately, his son drops his crayons and takes off toward him at full speed. he throws his arms around his neck, and seungcheol scoops him up to tote him off so that he can wash his hands before he eats. when he looks back at you, you're neatening up the mess his son left behind. you won't put it away (seungcheol is clear about that: he's trying to teach his son to put his toys away when he's done, and he knows that he'll go back to drawing once he's done eating), but there's something cute about the way you carefully make sure the crayons won't roll away.

there's something there, he thinks to himself as he's washing his hands alongside his son (demonstration, or something like that: just to show his son that everyone should be doing this to keep themselves healthy). he's not imagining it, is he? he knows he has friends who can drop things for him if he needs them to step in and be an uncle or an aunt for a bit, but you're... different. his son loves you more than any of seungcheol's other friends. you've taken his son out a few times for play dates at the park or trips to the aquarium when seungcheol needed some undisturbed rest from work. he's cared for you when you were sick the same way you've cared for him and his son when the times come. hell, you've even tagged along with him to help distract his son during the boring errands, just to make his day a little easier. it's almost like you're a second parent to--

he stops. you're like a parent to his son. when did you become a parent to his son? he washes his hands off and dries them before drying his son's, and he watches the kid hop down from his stool and immediately head to where you're washing your own hands. seungcheol pulls out his phone while he has the spare moment, and texts jeonghan: can you watch him this weekend if my neighbor says yes to a date?

the response back is almost immediate: oh? so you're finally doing it? good luck. (yes, i'll watch him)

and now he'll have to ask you, even if he starts to think twice about it. all that's left is to figure out how to do it. and he'll start thinking about that... after he watches you sneak his son extra goldfish crackers, just to see him smile.

[azzibuckets]

i want the world to know

[paige bueckers]

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: 5 times you and paige accidentally expose your relationship to the world (aka when your love is so strong you guys can’t help but slip up) and the 1 time you make sure the world knows

a/n: Ok so i wrote the summary rly wrong cuz idk how to word it but yk how the format goes 😅

masterlist

#1

You lifted the Big East championship trophy in the air, grinning at the crowd of cameras. After getting into several different poses, you handed the trophy off to another teammate for their turn and rejoined the rest of the girls, who were packed into a tight circle, whooping and dancing as you all celebrated your tournament win.

You were all watching and hollering in support as KK did the griddy when Paige touched your upper arm.

“What’s up?” You yelled over the noise of the fans and the team celebrating, stepping aside so you could hear her.

She shook her head, eyes sparkling as she stepped closer to you. “Your hat,” she murmured, gently take your Big East champs hat off your head.

“Is there something wrong?” You reached up to mess with your hair, but Paige got to it first, softly pulling out strands from behind your ears and combing through your hair with her fingers. “Just a little messy,” she explained. Her nose scrunched and her tongue poked out in concentration as she carefully fixed your hair, then put the cap back on backwards.

“Paige,” you complained, but with a smile on your face.

“‘M sorry, you just look so cute and gangsta with it backwards,” Paige stifled a giggle, giving the brim of your cap a little flick.

You pouted. “P, put it back right.” You whined.

“Alright, alright.” Paige stopped teasing you and swung your hat around. You beamed at her as she straightened your cap, leaving her finishing touches. Stepping back, she observed you with a proud smile on her face.

The next morning, photos of Paige touching your hair were all over Twitter, and fans started suspecting you two were more than friends.

#2

Some of the girls were over at KK’s apartment. Being the mother that you were, you took charge of making dinner, getting started in the kitchen by chopping vegetables for your famous chicken noodle soup.

After some time, Paige ambled into the kitchen, bored with the live and already missing you.

“How’s the food going, baby?” Paige came up from behind you, sneaking her hands around your waist and resting her cheek against your head.

“Good, you wanna help?” You turned around to give Paige a soft kiss on the lips before focusing back on preparing dinner.

“I dunno,” Paige gently rocked back and forth with you, burrowing her face into the curve of your neck. “Your hair smells so good. Can I jus stay right here?”

“If you want,” you giggled.

You guys started fooling around like love birds, Paige grabbing random slices of vegetables off the cutting board and popping it into both of your mouths.

That’s when KK came in, still on live. She carefully maneuvered around you guys, trying not to get you on camera, as she grabbed a snack. But as she left the kitchen, she ripped open a bag of goldfish, causing her phone to shift and catch you two in the background.

3712 viewers saw Paige feeding you a slice of carrot from behind, one of her hands in the pocket of your jeans and the other reaching around your shoulder to put the food in your mouth, thumb resting on the corner of your lips as you chewed.

#3

During a game against Seton Hall, Paige got elbowed while on defense, the girl’s elbow flying up and smacking into her face.

Paige flew backwards, dropping to the ground, the pain taking away her breath. Still, she forced herself to get up and keep playing defense, sprinting to catch up and do her duty.

After that possession, as she got subbed out with blood dripping from her nose and down her mouth, she yelled angrily at the referee. One of the team’s physicians ran up to Paige with a napkin, trying to blot at her nose, but Paige’s mind was buzzing with an intense mixture of anger and pain, and she pushed away from the physician, brushing both her and Geno’s orders for her to calm down off as she tried to keep yelling at the ref.

Seeing the physician’s growing frustration at Paige refusing to let her clean up her nose, you got up from the bench and over to Paige. “Let me,” you told the physician, who gratefully handed you the napkin.

“Paige.” At your voice, Paige turned around.

“What the hell was that?” She demanded. “You saw that right? They didn’t even fucking call it-“

“Paige,” you reached out with the napkin. “I know. Let’s just get you cleaned up first, hm?”

Paige reluctantly nodded, leaning forward to let you wipe up her nose. You placed one hand under her chin to stabilize her. You didn’t even realize it, but your thumb instinctually stroked her cheek in an attempt to soothe her. She continued grumbling under her breath, but stayed still so you could make sure she was okay.

As soon as you wiped up the last of the blood, she started to walk off, but you called her back. “P, let them check to see if it’s broken.” You gestured at the physician waiting helplessly on the side.

Paige rolled her eyes but turned around to make her way back to the physician.

Later that night, the video of you cleaning up Paige’s bloody nose went viral on Tiktok, the comments going wild over how Paige seemingly refused to listen to anyone but you.

#4

You and Paige were attending the ESPY Awards. Paige was nominated for Female College Athlete of the Year and had invited you along as her plus one. When she won, you both stood up in excitement, and you couldn’t help but kiss her on the cheek before she went up on stage to accept her award.

All night you two had been a little bit more touchy than expected for friends. On the red carpet, her hand constantly rested on the small of your back. Even when she was getting interviewed and you were standing off to the side, some part of her body was always touching you.

Your table was in the very corner of the venue, so you decided it was safe to interlock your ankles. You two often did that as a way to reassurance each other of your presence when you couldn’t touch in more obvious ways. Her ankle wrapped around yours, and your calves pressed against each other.

Both of you failed to see that the table cloth only covered half of your legs, and so anyone who walked by and looked closely would see them intertwined. Which still would’ve been fine, since you guys were in the back of the room - the only reason you two were caught was because you were in a background of a picture of the couple at the table in front of you. In the background, you were staring at each other with fond smiles on your faces, and if you zoomed in, it was clear as day that your legs were interlocked.

Later that night, as you guys left the ceremony, throngs of sports fans waited outside, yelling at the athletes streaming out of venue in hopes of getting noticed. Paige shielded you from them, moving from your left to your right side so that her body blocked out all the fans reaching out and waving their posters in your faces. Her hand glanced over your waist, leading you through.

#5

You had Paige enfolded against the wall of the bedroom. She let out a guttural sound as you sucked her skin between your lips, rolling it between your teeth.

“Baby,” she breathed, fingers tracing down your spine. “Holy shit, this feels so good, but we really gotta go.”

You ignored her words, continuing to brush your lips over her skin, until she had to physically push you away. “I want you,” you complained, fisting the bottom of her shirt to attach your lips to hers.

Paige kissed you back, slow and steady, before gently grabbing your chin and pulling apart. “I know, baby, I promise we can continue this later. But Geno’s gonna kill us if we’re late.”

The whole team was supposed to go to a media event at Gampel to promote March Madness. You’d have to meet fans and also do interviews with the press, but right now you didn’t cary about any of that. All you wanted was Paige, now.

But your girlfriend was firm, leading you out the door. Right before you got to Gampel, you dropped her hand, and you both walked with your arms crossed, knowing that if either of you left your hands dangling, they’d end up intertwined.

As soon as you entered, Paige was pulled away for an interview. You had twenty minutes until yours, so in the mean time you hung out with Ice, talking to some fans.

“I like your lipstick,” one of the fans complimented you. You had put on bright maroon lipstick before leaving the house.

“Thank you!” you smiled, laughing and agreeing once the fan asked you to post your makeup routine and the brands of all your products later on Instagram.

Paige finished up her interview and came over to you and Ice. “Thank god,” she muttered, “that took forever. And it’s so hot in here.” She ran her hands through her hair, collecting it into a ponytail.

You froze when you saw smudges of maroon littering Paige’s neck. You had been careful not to leave hickeys, but in your rush to leave the apartment, you had forgotten to clean up your lipstick once Paige had let her hair down.

“What?” Paige cocked an eyebrow in confusion, but before you could say anything, a fan came and asked her for a picture.

“Hey, wait,” you interrupted, but the fan quickly snapped a photo and took off in her eagerness to find the rest of the team.

“Oh my god,” you muttered. “Paige, look.” You opened your camera on your phone, showing the crimson on her neck.

Paige gaped for a second before bursting out in laughter. “I’m not gonna lie, babe. This is kinda hot.” She examined her neck, trailing her fingers over the red marks.

You glared at her, completely unamused. “I’m literally wearing bright maroon lipstick, and that photo the girl took with you is gonna be all over the Internet within the next two hours.”

Paige adjusted her hair to cover her neck again. “Listen, baby, I’m not entirely opposed to people finding out. I want the world to know you’re my girl.”

You blushed, Paige’s possessiveness sending warm tingles throughout your body. You were her girl. “I know, but there were so many more ways we could’ve let people find out. So many more romantic ways.”

Paige grinned, hooking her fingers through the loops of your jeans and pulling you in. “I don’t know,” she teased. “This seems pretty romantic.”

“If we’re both being honest, almost the whole world already knows we’re dating. We’re not that sneaky,” you admitted.

A glint appeared in Paige’s eyes. “Well, then, we might as well show the ones who don’t.” She smirked at you before gathering her hair into a ponytail.

[lilofthevlly]

i miss watching films. bring back my ability to watch numerous movies in a span of one day t-t

[blac-ivy]

I know not every mc can be strong willed, I understand that the people you love can be your greatest weakness... But nothing pisses me off like a flimsy reader/mc.

Bro's cheated 27 times, ran over your mum, then reversed the car back over her to 'assess the damage', boiled your goldfish, waxed one of your eyebrows, let his sidechick call you the Pillsbury doughboy, his mum treats you like shit stuck to her shoe and doesn't give a fuck about you the entirety of your relationship... But as soon as mc finds the strength to move on, a kiss on your 'sweet spot' is all it takes and you're weak at the knees. This is the 21st century, be a baddie go show your panty or something like ohmygod?!?! Stand up!!.

Nothing makes me walk away from a fic as fast as seeing someone who doesn't deserve forgiveness get forgiven after doing the bare minimum, or like when they've wronged someone and they leave them but they were pregnant or something

" why didn't you tell me?'' "I deserve to know" Shut up you deserve nothing.

For the love of god, get angry, get evil, get even, throw hands if you must.

Like I don't know who I want to fight more, the characters or the writers.

[florisa6s]

A idea- mostly bats

I like the idea of different heros getting those good meds after a hard mission...

----

Tim: are you sure you have it handeled?

Wally on the phone: Of course i have it handled, no offense but I've been taking care of your brother for years now-

*Dick in the background wobbling out of the medbay making his escape*

Wally:-so I think I know exactly-

*Dick punching a random person as he fights security behind Wally*

Wally:- how to do it!

*Screams in the background*

-----

Tim: Dick I really don't think thats a good Idea right now....

Dick: what do you mean Damian is loving it! look how happy he is.

*Damian in a pool with a Nightwing floaty and arm floatys looking into the distance with wide eyes*

Tim: he looks like he's going through an existential crisis...or roleplaying a dead goldfish.

Dick: no, he's so happy! look at that face and tell me he's not overjoyed!

Jason: he is not overjoyed.

------

Tim: okay weird question- when superman is on pain meds what would someone do if *hypothetically* someone who looks like Superman is currently floating up into the sky towards the sun and you can't get him down because your busy saving your brother from flying away too-

*Damian holding a sleeping Jon on a leash about to fly away with Tim holding Damians legs.*

Tim: so what would someone do..... hypothetically.

*pulls out binoculars to look at a equally sleeping Kon floating past the clouds.*

------

Bruce: have- have I ever told you bout my wifey?

all:....

Oliver: no please do tell *pulls out recorder*

Hal: yeah don't skip any details *flips open a notepad clicking a pen*

Bruce: she is the most beautiful, strongest woman I ever married-

Clark and Diana: aww...

Bruce: she gave me the most beautiful angel son and I'm so proud-

Barry: wait son-

Bruce: but shes always too busy killing people to visit and my son looks exactly like her! he even gives me the same disgusted look when I drink out of the milk carton-

all:....

Hal: uh...kill? she kills people?

Bruce: yes I just said that pay attention Jordan. Now don't even get me started on my kids-

*long tangent about how much he loves his kids*

Bruce: -And thats why my little boys are the best, any questions

Clark: I thought you work alone-

Barry: -And that you hate metas!

-----

Dick: uhh what's going on here?

Tim: Jason is killing me *on a chair reading a book*

Dick: really?

Tim: yup

*Jason on the bed holding gun fingers towards Dick*

Jason: Pew, pew clack clack click

Dick: what did he just do?

Tim: he shot you, ran out of anmo, reloaded and-

Jason: pew!

Tim:-And he just killed you with a headshot.

[buccini555]

𝐓𝐨𝐤𝐲𝐨 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭: 𝐬/𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞

★ H e a d c a n o n s, fem reader.ᐟ

★ They reacting to y/n walking around the house practically without clothes

★ 𝑭𝒕. Kakucho Hitto, Izana Kurokawa, Manjiro Sano, Kazutora Hanemiya, Ran Haitani, Rindou Haitani, Sanzu Haruchiyo and Hanma Shuji

★ Suggestive words, petnames (baby girl, baby)

𝐊𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐨 𝐇𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐨

He would have just returned home and it wouldn't take long for him to notice the presence of his girlfriend, as soon as he noticed that she was walking through the house practically naked at first Kakucho would be a little thoughtful about why she was walking like that, but it would end questioning her at the same time.

"We'd better go to my room, don't you think?" Hugging the girl from behind and holding onto her waist, he would ask gently.

𝐈𝐳𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐊𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚

In front of his aquarium Izana would be busy watching his goldfish when he noticed the presence of his girlfriend passing by in the hallway in front of his room, as soon as he saw her and noticed her lack of clothes, Izana immediately turned all his attention to the girl, getting up and going after her.

"What do you want, baby girl?" Holding her waist, he would question in a low tone of voice.

𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐨

Manjiro would be as distracted as he had just woken up, even so, when he suddenly saw his girlfriend walking around the house practically naked, he would stay awake at the same moment, going to the girl curious to know why she was walking like that.

“Y/n, are you okay?” With a small smile, he would say as he approached his girlfriend.

𝐊𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐚 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐲𝐚

He would have just arrived home and would sit on the sofa to rest for a while, but suddenly he would see his girlfriend walking around the house, at first, Kazutora wouldn't pay much attention until he saw that the girl was practically undressed, when he realized , he got up and went after her at the same moment.

“Isn’t it too late for you to tease me like that, Y/n?” Hugging her from behind in surprise, he would speak in a mischievous tone.

𝐑𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐢

Ran had practically just woken up and was having his breakfast in the kitchen, when he turned around at the counter, he immediately saw his girlfriend walking practically naked down the hallway, at the same moment, Ran went to the girl and gently held her by the arm.

"Let's go to my room and sort this out before Rindou wakes up." Letting out an ironic laugh with a subtle smile, he would say, taking the girl towards his room.

𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐢

Lying on the bed, Rindou was just listening to some music with the bedroom door open, from the corner of his eye, he saw his girlfriend walk through the hallway practically naked, at the same time, he got up, leaving his things aside and went to the girl , Rindou gently held her arm and brought her to her room.

"Are you crazy, Y/N? Do you want my brother to end up seeing you like this?" Placing a blanket over the girl's body, he spoke, trying not to be distracted by her body.

𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐳𝐮 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐲𝐨

Haruchiyo was lying in bed just about to fall asleep, but upon seeing his girlfriend passing through the hallway in front of the room without wearing any type of clothes, Sanzu would immediately wake up, leaving his sleep aside at that exact moment as he wondered why. of the girl being like that.

He would get up, go to the girl and grab her by the waist. "What are you doing, baby?" Pulling Y/n closer to him, Haruchiyo would question in a serious tone.

𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐦𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐮𝐣𝐢

He would be distracted smoking a cigarette on the balcony while watching the cars pass by on the street, as soon as he turned around after finishing his cigarette, Hanma would be surprised to see his girlfriend walking around the house with practically no clothes on.

"What are you doing? You're not cold, are you?" Going up to the girl and hugging her from behind, he would ask with a sideways smile.

[sarahghetti]

moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

-

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

.

.

.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

-

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

-

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

.

.

.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

-

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

-

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

-

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

-

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

-

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

.

.

.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

[inconveniently-discorporated]

By some fantastical turn of events, it turns out that my daughter and I have the same favorite author. She's three. I'm mumblethirtysomethingmumble. She might even be a bigger fan than me.

(it's vastly important to note the shame is not from the age but because i keep losing count and so I'm considering just keeping track in decades from now on)

So, first let me say that it was a happy coincidence that the author of one of my favorite books as an adolescent (Coraline) turned out to be the author (one of the authors anyway) of one of my favorite books as an adult. I presume you can guess based on *gestures wildly at profile*.

But it was an entirely different not-coincidence-but-still-a-surprise situation that transpired whereupon this author became my daughter's favorite author.

I was perusing G - GAIMAN for some other books I'd been interested in reading to her -- the one about wolves and the other one about goldfish -- when I happened upon Pirate Stew. I bought it, and it looked like fun. I had no idea.

Now, children's books are my kryptonite. I can get by myself on digital purchases and the library, but my child? Absolutely not, I CANNOT say no to buying her books. It's literally -- no matter what my bank account claims -- impossible to pass up a book if I think she'll like it.

Nonetheless, she's three. She never remains on any one book for any particular length of time, even though she enjoys them and already uses them during parties to avoid eye contact and conversation with strangers. She takes after me, see.

But this book? She is absolutely ENAMORED with it. We went to a play place thing where they had a massive boat to play on and she ran around yelling about pirate stew with her mud pies. It's ALWAYS her one of two books she reads for bedtime. If it's not in her rotation of books, she'll ask for it specifically. More importantly, it's the only book she's loved enough to pretend to read to me, for the first time in her young little life.

I don't know what I'm trying to say here, I guess thanks @neil-gaiman for making the joy of reading accessible to all ages. Here's to many more years of reading -- and maybe someday she'll start writing, too. She's very fond of art, in all its forms, so no matter what I think she'll be inspired to partake in the creative process.

[idkwhatimdoinghere1655]

Erm... Sorry? - Lando Norris

<word count - 1119>

"Lando?" You called out after just getting home. Your roommate, Lando, was home for the first time in a while. His job meant that he was away a lot, so it was nice to see him around. Sure, you enjoyed the quiet tranquility, but you missed him. 

"In here!" He shouted back as you located him in the living room. You couldn't help the goofy smile that grew across your face when you saw him. You stood near the couch, waiting for him to make a move. "So are you going to give your friend a hug, or are you just going to sit there?" you tutted with a sarcastic roll of your eyes. 

"I think I'll just sit here," he stifled back a laugh, looking you up and down. He really did miss you while he was away, more than he'd ever care to admit. Even if he could quite easily afford to live by himself in a much nicer apartment, the two of you had shared this one for years. 

You had been friends for nearly as long as you could remember, and your parents had always teased the two of you. They did even more so now that you still lived together, even after your completely different situations and lifestyles. 

You were Lando's one normal thing. When he didn't have a normal childhood, with karting, then racing and everything in between, he had one constant thing in his life. You. His one safe space, and his one best friend. And he'd give it all to keep it that way.

"Don't be a dick, Lando," you playfully scoffed, opening your arms out to him. That was all it took for him to lug himself off the couch and wrap his arms around you. "I missed you," he mumbled, but you could only feel the reverberations through your skull, not hear the words. 

"So, how was everything?" You asked, letting go of the embrace and sitting down on the couch beside him. "Good, good, very stressful though, to be honest," he nodded. Lando was always honest with you, since you could read him like a book. 

"You know, you should just take a night when you're there. No parties or anything, just a quiet night in your hotel room. Or you can call me, whatever suits. Might take the edge off," you told him. Yes, you had told him many times before, but it didn't hurt to rehash it.

"I know, baby, I know," he sighed, leaning his head back and resting it on the back of the couch. You sat there for a moment, mouth open like a goldfish. Baby? you thought to yourself. Lando clearly hadn't noticed what he had said.

"Did you, uhm, did you mean to call me that?" You stuttered, blushing profusely. You thought he could have just been taking the mick, but his lack of a reaction told you otherwise. "Call you what?" He asked, completely oblivious.

"Baby." You said, your eyes flickering up to his face to try and gauge any sort of a reaction. "What? I didn't call you-" he started, but then it clicked. His mind had cast back through the past few sentences, and he just looked at you, dumbfounded. 

"I, erm... Sorry? It just kinda... Slipped out," he reasoned, unable to make eye contact with you. You could see he too was also flushed as he ran a hand through his curly locks.  You both sat there in uncomfortable silence, neither of you knowing what to say. 

"Sorry..." Lando mumbled again, his eyes flashing up to yours and back down to his hands, which he was fidgeting with in his lap. Lando was mentally scolding himself - he couldn't believe he had let that slip. 

He had wanted to tease you by calling you an affectionate nickname, but he didn't mean for it to slip out in a genuine manner. It just rolled of his tongue naturally, almost out of habit. He liked the way it sounded when he was talking to you, it fit for him. 

"It's OK, it was an accident," you nodded, but it came off more as a fact that you were trying to convince yourself of. "Yeah, an accident, yeah," he confirmed, repeating the word over and over again in his head until he hopefully believed it. 

Your heart stopped for a second. You saw that particular glimmer in Lando's eye. The one that told you his was lying to you, but he was trying his best to conceal it. But, you didn't want to push it, things were awkward enough.

On the other hand, Lando was contemplating doing the exact opposite thing. He wanted to push it, arguably, too far. He could tell you had sussed him out, and he should have guessed that lying straight to your face would get him absolutely nowhere.

Without allowing himself a second thought, Lando put his hands on either of your cheeks and pulled you in, close to him. He slightly hesitated when his lips were barely even a millimeter away from yours, before mustering up all of the confidence he possibly had in his body. 

He pressed his lips against yours, the tension of the moment melting away for a slight moment, before he pulled away again. "Lando..." you sighed, placing an affectionate hand over one of the ones that were on your cheek.

Lando swiftly retracted his hands away from you. "Sorry, I just-"

"Lando,"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have kissed you I just-" Lando frantically rambled, his leg nervously bouncing up and down. "Lando, listen," you softly said, trying to calm him down and get him to think for a second. "No, but I shouldn't have done that after I called you-" He started fumbling again. 

You didn't know what else to do, so you tugged him closer to you and stole his lips with yours. "Take a breath for me, yeah? It's OK," you tried to soothe, but you could tell he was very embarrassed by what he had done. "Did you just kiss me?"

"It stopped you needlessly apologising, didn't it?"

"Needlessly? You mean I don't have to say sorry?" He asked, nearly completely gobsmacked. He thought you'd yell at him, maybe make him leave the apartment or leave yourself. "Are you going to keep rambling or are you going to kiss me again?" You asked, looking at him in a way you never had before. 

It was the softness of his touch, how tenderly he had kissed you. It left you surprised, but desperate for more. And Lando could happily give you more. "Now that I can do, baby." He smirked, pulling you closer again. But this time you weren't surprised, not in the slightest. 

A/N - I want to write, but the lack of motivation and inspiration I have had in, what feels like, the last few months is so frustrating. I wrote this a while back, just never posted it. I'm halfway through a couple requests, they are coming.💖

|masterlist|

[xxblairexxss]

Sharing is caring

Pairing : dad!Charles Leclerc x mom!reader

Theme : Fluff

Another short one because this has been in my draft for a while.

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charles_leclerc

Liked by pierregasly, arthur_leclerc and 1,820,638 others

charles_leclerc My world ❤️

username1 cuteeeeeee 🥹😩

username2 that matching ribbons! ugh so adorable

username3 my dreeam! 🥹🥹🥹🥹

ynusername

Liked by charles_leclerc, calra.broker and 633,929 others

ynusername Excited for her popcorn 🍿

username1 THAT LITTLE FEET

username2 omg she’s so cuteeeeee

username3 bowl is too big 😭😂😂

username4 that small hand on the bowl 🥹

"1, 2, 3–"

The sweet, lovable voice filled up your kitchen as your little one counted everything you put on her plate. She had just started learning numbers, so everything that she could count, she wouldn’t miss a chance.

"5!"

"No, honey. It’s 4, then 5. There you go. Can you carry it?" You leaned down to slowly place the plate on her little hands. She was always excited for her snack time because you would put all different things together, so she had more choices for her food. This time, you had prepared frozen banana yoghurt bites, small slices of apples, a few small peanut butter bites, and some goldfish crackers.

"No! I carry."

"Okay, careful!" You were going to help her bring the plate to her small table in the living room, but she wanted to do everything on her own now.

"Need dada’s help?" Charles heard the little steps tapping against the floor first before he saw his little girl with a plate full of her snacks. The plate was bigger than her face, and it was a bit of a struggle to carry it but she kept on denying every offer of help.

"No!" She placed it on her table, looked at her dad with the biggest smile and started clapping her hands. "Yay!"

"Yay! What have you got there?"

"This.." She pointed at the frozen banana yoghurt bites and took one in her hand. "Banana!"

"That one?" Charles pointed at the goldfish cracker.

"That is fish!" She took one and munched on it, her cheeks puffing out from trying to chew them thoroughly.

"Can dada get some?”

"Let me think!" She puckered her lips and scanned through her plate to decide which one she was going to give to Charles. "Dada want this?" She took a few goldfish crackers, leaving her with two left. "There. I need more fish! Dada wait!"

"Oh? You want me to wait here? Okay, baby. Can dada eat this?" He showed her the handful of crackers in his hand that she just gave.

"Yes!" She stood up wobbly and ran to the kitchen again, this time with a half-empty plate. There were only two crackers left and one banana bites. "Mommy, more?"

"Did you actually eat all of them? That was quick." Your brows furrowed as you took the pink-coloured plate from her.

"Dada ate too!" She giggled and extended her arms to get her plate back.

"What?" You peeked at your husband laying on the couch with a fistful of crackers, treating it as some sort of popcorn, while his eyes locked on the television. "Charles! Are you being serious? Stop taking her snacks!"

Your voice made him jumped, but he continued chomping on the crackers again. "Honey, she was the one who gave it to me."

“Well, then stop taking it!" You put a few more crackers into a small bowl this time before giving it to her. "Don’t share with daddy. This will be the last one, okay? No more."

"Thank you, mommy!" The sound of her footsteps clomping again as she ran back to her dad "Uh oh, mommy angry." She pulled a face and pointed her little finger at her dad, making him laugh.

"You cheeky girl! Mommy’s angry at me because of you." He pinched her chubby cheek as she munched on the crackers again. "Is it good?”

"Yes! Dada want?" She took one off her plate and handed it to Charles.

"It’s okay, baby. Dada’s full."

The little one frowned and looked down on her plate with her bottom lips jutting out, feeling rejected. The cracker she had in her small palm kept being twiddled in it.

Charles pressed his lips together to control his expression. His little girl had already learned how to give attitude if none of her requests were being obeyed. He would always get in trouble because you would scold him for being too fulfilling with her requests, but how could he say no to that squishy little face?

"Okay, okay. Give me one." She the handed him the one she had fiddling in her palm and squealed when Charles ate it.

"Dada more?" She offered another one and he shook his head again.

"No, thank you, baby."

"Please dada.." She pulled a pleading look with her big, round eyes, making him lose this round as well. She giggled and put the cracker in his mouth when he leaned closer.

You then walked into the living room with your hands crossed, glaring at your husband, who was still chewing on something. "Can you stop taking your daughter’s snack?"

"I’m not, honey! I swear! Right, baby?"

"Dada wants more!" She squealed, making Charles’s mouth wide open.

"Honey, don’t listen to her!"

"Well, she obviously doesn’t know how to lie! Right, baby? Is dada taking your snack?" Your brows were still furrowed as you looked at your husband, who was speechless in his seat.

"She was the one who offered me the crackers!" Charles argued.

“Dada said more!” She shrieked and handed another one of the fish crackers to Charles, making you chew on your lips.

“You know, if you really want it, I can give the whole packet to you. Stop taking it from her.”

“I’m not, honey!”

✧.* general tag list! @i83andrew @cltrlne @karmabyfernando @ohthemisssery @ru-kru @tastebaldwin @f1obessed @love4lando @shinrjj @ietss @leclerc13 @darleneslane @buckybarnessweetheart

If your usernames were crossed, meaning I can’t tag you! 😭 Let me know if you would like to be removed or to be added to the tag list! Or if I missed anyone!