#the fish on the left is neat too

[ilostmymojo]

I've never really looked at the members of Damp Socks, and man they've got style.

[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.

[feyascorner]

Astarion who gets a cat after his lover succumbs to time.

He’s lost most of his desires for companionship. He prefers to lounge around what was your shared home all day, reading or taking care of things you left behind—like plants or belongings that need consistent attention. He remains as put together as he’s always been. Clean clothes, perfect hair, and a neat home. However, he doesn't dare to go into your room. No, that’s something he's silently sworn to never touch, fearing that he might taint the last of your mark on this cursed world.

He doesn't go out much anymore. He doesn't really see the point when you're not there to make the adventures truly fun. When you're not there to pull him out of stupid decisions like you always have.

So instead, a visitor comes to him each day. It’s a mangy thing, this cat. A bit chubby with legs on the shorter side, but by the gods if the thing isn't capable of jumping higher than his height. The first time he sees it loitering around his house, Astarion approaches it because its fur is the same shade as your hair. Quickly he realizes the thing hates him, because it practically attacks him with its claws.

Still, as time goes on, it begins to grow on him. No matter how many times he shoos it off, it comes back (albeit angrier) and wanders until Astarion feeds it a fish. Eventually, the cat is able to walk freely inside the home too, and Astarion won't freak out about the fur getting everywhere.

The cat is his only friend—if you could call it that. It sits beside him as he reads, paces alongside him as he cleans the house, and Astarion finds himself petting the damn thing while it sleeps. He still hasn't given it a name, and calls it “cat” which it doesn't seem to mind.

One day, it wanders into your room. Astarion freaks at first, suddenly yelling at it for to leave, but seeing the poor thing shrink away from him makes him sigh. He takes his first step into your room since your passing and finally takes it in. Your clothes, your bed, your scent. Everything feels distant now. Somehow it feels like you're still here when he's standing in the room.

But you're long gone, he thinks as he clutches onto one of your jackets. His fists clench around the fabric. You’ve left him to rot alone for the rest of his immortal life. But he's never asked for forever. He only wanted as much time as he could squeeze out with you.

Is that so much to ask?

There was so much to do.

So much he wanted to show you.

When fat tears land onto your jacket, his eyes widen. He didn't cry. Astarion never cried. Not even at your funeral, where everyone gave him pitying eyes did he feel water well up in his eyes. He's thought to have long lost that ability in the years he spent under Cazador. Yet here he was, crying like a child who'd just lost their mother at a carnival.

Something brushes against his leg. The cat again. It rubs it's face against his calf and he notices how soft it feels. He remembers how soft you'd felt in his arms. How kind and warm you were. How you'd been the sole light in his wretched, cursed life.

Dammit.

And then, he's sobbing. No longer crying, but wailing as he collapses onto his knees in your room, emotions built over years of lost mourning coming out all at once. He holds the cat, because holding your jacket makes his hands shake terribly. And it doesn't scratch and meow at him once in the hours it seems he cries pitifully on the ground.

This cursed cat, he thinks hours later, when he's lying on your bed with it sprawled on his chest. He has half the mind to kick it off, but refrains—a repayment for earlier.

It nuzzles against his hand.

Astarion decides then that he'd keep it. That until he'd be able to join you, he'd keep this one companion by his side.

[sixosix]

'cat' the son | itoshi rin

( a/n ) when i came back the poll was 50/50 so i got bribed and it’s now decided that rin is the winner + little highschool au bc we all know they dropped out:/ idk what to title this im ngl

there’s a cat on the sidewalk.

you have about six dollars in your hand, a faltering mission to treat yourself to a cold drink, and an aching heart at the sight of the little animal seated like a king on concrete, looking up at you with blank eyes.

its dark fur and near-teal eyes remind you of someone. of a back facing your seat, dark hair always kept neat and looking like it’s conditioned meticulously, and the sharpest eyes you have ever seen on a high schooler.

it has been a long day, long enough for you to have stormed out of the room as soon as classes ended to rush to the nearest shop that would sell what you’re craving. alas, there is a cat on the sidewalk, and you can’t just ignore it.

“stay here, kitty,” you say before rushing off with the six dollars in hand and a new goal to head straight to the nearest sign with an animal cardboard cutout printed on it.

eventually, you find one; eventually, you come out of the store holding cat food and a tiny cat bowl because you were worried about letting the cat eat straight from the can. it’s baby blue with little fishes added as design, though you think it’s rather gruesome to put that there, considering the canned food you bought is made from fish. still, you hope the cat will appreciate it.

the cat is still there as if it’s understood and blessed you with patience. the unimpressed look it has on its face says otherwise, though. grateful, you kneel beside it, slightly mesmerized by the fact that it hasn’t run away yet.

maybe other people are feeding it, too? it doesn’t look worryingly thin. needs a little cleaning, but looks well-fed. you’re relieved.

“here you go,” you coo, ignoring the strange looks of the passersby. you place the bowl down and crack open the can. the smell has the cat walking over, meowing all crankily. “i know, i know.”

the cat doesn’t dig in until you’ve finished shaking off its contents, staring at you in the same way the itoshi guy in your class would. the resemblance is uncanny.

you spend the rest of your afternoon keeping the cat company. its face speaks as if it’s far from amused, but the way it rubs against your ankle contradicts it.

cute. the cat is cute.

another student comes to visit the cat, carrying two cans of cat food. it’s been sitting in the plastic for a little while because as he had been going in the same routine he usually has, he spots you, his classmate, bent to the knees next to his cat, and paused.

rin thinks you’re scared of him because everyone in the class is. he lets you have your moment, choosing to come back later when you’ve finished so you don’t freak out and scare the cat. he thinks he can strike up a conversation tomorrow where there are no cats to frighten.

the cat walks up to him, instantly familiar. he doesn’t even meow up at rin impatiently, which confirms rin’s suspicions.

“y/n fed you well,” he mumbles. “i guess you can have this tomorrow.”

you’re suddenly all too aware that rin sits in front of you. he’s right there, uniform stretched over his broad back, most likely because he’s the prodigy of soccer in your school.

the neatness of his hair reminds you of the cat from yesterday, with its silky dark fur despite being a stray. you resist the urge to touch it, missing the cat already. you make a mental note to refill your water bottle so the cat can drink after.

while left thinking about the fact that you’re three dollars shorter than yesterday's budget, you fail to notice that class has ended and rin has his arm slung over the top of his chair to turn to look at you.

rin’s eyes flicker down to the paper bag next to your feet. “what’s that for?”

startled by the smoothness of his voice directed at you, you choke out a: “t-this?” you gesture lamely at the bag containing the gruesome bowl.

“what else am i referring to?”

you scrunch your nose. “okay, no need to be so rude. maybe i won’t tell you what it is.”

rin stares, and you’re intensely reminded of piercing eyes looking up at you, patiently waiting for the canned tuna.

“it’s a cat bowl,” you murmur, defeated.

“cat bowl,” he repeats, a gleam in his eye. he probably thinks you’re weirder than he already thinks you are.

“for a stray. i don’t want to bring it around because some other cat owner might steal it. i can’t have that.”

“show me,” he demands.

a little terrified by the fact that the class grump is actively maintaining a conversation with you; you obediently show him the bowl, spinning it around to show all sides. rin hums, contemplative. your classmates are starting to stare. “it’s weird, right? fishes for the print and fishes for dinner. do you like it?”

“lukewarm.”

“what does that even mean?”

“it’s too small. buy a new one.”

“...you think?”

rin nods, standing up. the chair screeches while he says, “i’ll come with you.”

this is how you end up in the same pet supply store with a companion this time. rin picks the most expensive one for the bowl and the canned cat food, which makes you think he must really like cats a lot.

but as you two leave the store, you belatedly realize he’s leading the way even though you never told him anything about the stray you meet.

it doesn’t hit you until the same cat meows and purrs at rin, rubbing against his pants with its entire body.

“hi,” rin says, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

you gape. “wait, the cat’s yours?”

rin bends down, knees to his chest while he sets the bowl down and cracks the can open with one finger. “no. dad’s allergic. he doesn’t follow me back home anyway.” while he does that, the cat comes to greet you, and your heart aches on rin’s behalf.

so he just comes to feed him every day, huh… you muse, gently scratching the cat who purrs at your attention but still looks as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“do you have a name for him?”

rin pauses, having finished pouring everything. “...no.” he squints at you as if you’ve just asked him the exact coordinates of his birthplace: sincerely confused.

“what do you call him, then?” you watch as the unnamed cat starts digging down on the food, content. you wonder why no one else has already kept this cat to themselves. he’s so cute and polite.

“cat.”

“ah, of course.”

you two watch ‘cat’ eat, content with the silence. it starts to drizzle moments later, but rin is quick to pull out an umbrella and cover all three of you. the cat grumbles unhappily at the splatter of rain hitting him.

“do you always visit him?”

“yes.”

“do you like cats?”

“yes.”

a shame that allergies are the only thing keeping itoshi rin from getting a cat.

while you’re distracted, the cat goes back to rin. rin wastes no time bending down to pick him up, looking awfully domestic in the middle of a sidewalk in front of a busy coffee shop. your hands twitch to reach for your phone, but you’re too stunned to do anything but stare. they look so much alike.

cute, you think, horrified, rin looks so cute holding the cat.

while engulfed in rin’s arms, the cat meows at you. and you, with a too-tender heart, can’t resist.

“i’ll keep him,” you declare with newfound determination. “i’ll take care of him. if you let me keep the bowl you bought.”

rin’s eyes light up, though it wouldn’t have been evident if you hadn’t been his classmate and witnessed his varying expressions of death. (as if it was varying in the first place.)

“i’ll buy everything else he’ll like,” he says, like a true cat mom, his face glowing with barely concealed excitement.

since then, rin accompanies you home. you tell him that you’ve saved up three dollars from yesterday and now you have more than enough to buy a nice, cold drink and maybe catnip for the cat, but rin insists that he’ll pay for everything, including your beverage.

“you feed our son.”

“our son?” he repeats curiously.

“yes. he lives with me. he looks like you,” you explain absentmindedly, setting up the water dispenser on the new food bowl rin ended up buying. it no longer has fish for design or the painful lime green he bought the second time—instead, it’s a nice blue that compliments the cat’s eyes.

“and what are you implying is going on between us?”

you nearly spill water all over the floor. “i…” you honestly did not think about that, “—nevermind. don’t make it weird, itoshi!”

you think you heard rin chuckling, but you’re too busy being embarrassed to bother.

(during class, you will find that rin is far from intimidating. in fact, he’s actually a little bitch to deal with. you’re starting to think that he’s more of a pain to deal with than an actual grumpy cat.

“don’t forget to buy food for our son,” rin says after class, in front of students who gossip like there is no tomorrow.

“what?”

“for our son,” rin says, nonplussed at the sight of your haunted expression.

someone who has overheard the conversation pipes up, “you two have a son?”

“we don’t!” you hiss, face burning with embarrassment at the sudden influx of attention from your classmates.

rin frowns. “don’t lie.”

“you two are starting to act like a married couple recently…” another comments offhandedly.

“itoshi walks y/n home, i saw!”

“we have a son,” rin agrees, and you’re starting to think that he’s doing it on purpose.

“stop saying that!”)

thank u art aanobrain for giving me the idea of rin just naming the cat ‘cat’. that idea is so special to me.

anyway. RIN IS SO HARD TO WRITE HELPPPP. this was an excruciating process i genuinely did not know if i did anything right but WHAT’S DONE IS DONE. thx for reading <3

[dhampling]

the kitchen 18+ gn!reader x potwasher!astarion au, 2k

He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes. - based on a discussion with @bhaalism. he's a potwasher. you want to fuck the potwasher. this started as a joke and now i'm obsessed. enjoy. cw: 18+, astarion is a potwasher, this is an au, you work in a shitty chain restaurant, sex, reader smokes, astarion vapes, creampies, oh no, gn reader i think

Before he’d caught you short of smokes, you’d never paid him much mind. 

Hair back in some messy swoop - grey, although you could swear under the fluorescent light of the kitchens it shone a bright white. Some age to his almost-crimson eyes but nothing too notable. 

Your pockets empty, patting down a food-encrusted apron in a tired resignatory furor - and he’d offered his vape silently under the back-door shelter. Minty. The familiar clouds in the walk-in, the occasional lingering menthol smell from his station. Your smoke breaks rarely align but this evening the stars shone between the fuzzy gaps in soaking clouds overhead and they gave you something new. Nicotine, chewed mouthpiece. 

There’d been a small exchange at the doorway following his outreach. 

He watched you with an inquisitive head tilt, eyes sharp with a dark smudge of lash - as if he were seeing you for the first time in this haze of heavy rain. Looked out to the bins with a deep breath and snorted at the overflow.

Astarion. Pot-wash extraordinaire, announced with a churlish eye-roll and some quiet clack of his tongue in your direction. He’d never so much as looked at you prior that you’d noticed, but now his gaze was locked on your inhale as if to watch the clear liquid leave the tank in real time. Lids flickering up to etch your side profile somewhere in the silver span of his mind. Another name to know. Another person to potentially cover his Sunday lates if he can get through to you, though.  

The name sounded far too beautiful, too distinct; but the pallor suggested local blood in those thick bluish veins. No freckles nor warmth in his ridiculously high cheeks, just the breeze of an oft-downturned nose and a passing fondness for the half-full bottles of red left by your tables, chugged (naturally) in a messy snorting huff over the running sink. Dribbles of dry red down that statuesque marble chin and a cack handed holler from the weekend porter - who would just as quickly be walloped over the head with the neat strike of a folded tea-towel.

His sniff at your thanks, the brief noncommittal nod before he tucked the vape back into his trouser pocket and dived back inside.

Camaraderie. That’s it.

-

It’s a week later when you both find yourselves outside again, falling through the back door out into another dark downpour to find him huddled to your left; drowning in an oversized outdoorsy coat with vape in hand. 

He catches your eye once more with a small smile

“Astarion, right?”

“Well remembered.”

You fish in your jacket pocket and pull out a disposable vape box, handing it over with a hurried smile.

“For the other night.”

“Could’ve just got the juice, you know.”

He hesitates on taking it, holding your stare. 

“I know. This was easier though. I’m not going to a vape store.” You grin and he snorts, taking the box from your hand.

“Well. Thank you. Most unexpected.”

You stand in amenable silence for a few moments, lighting your poison whilst he puffs away into the night. 

“How long have you been here, then?” You ask, flicking the ash into the wet and folding your arms.

“Too long. Far too long. You?”

“I’d say the same, but we haven’t really crossed paths before; have we?”

“Shame.”

He bristles as he says it. Some easy poke at wooing, you think. 

You could be swayed.

He is pretty. Really pretty. With those looks you’re almost surprised he’s not the rake of the joint, but your co-workers seem ridiculously oblivious to him - and he isn’t too endeared with them either, from what you can tell. He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings, nor is he one of the roaring personalities that carry all the way through to the bar counter in their jovial roaring. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes.

“What do you do when you’re not here, then?”

He looks back at you in a guarded ponder, eyes narrow.

“I spend the odd day off on my yacht, obviously; but only when my sprawling country mansion is undergoing renovations.”

You offer a laugh and he smirks. The humour is poor but salient.

“Ah! We might be neighbours, you know.”

“The mansion?”

“No, the dock. My weeknight yacht was newly refurbished there!”

“Oh, what luck!”

“We’ll have to host a dinner party or something. It’s only proper.”

Astarion gives you a laugh you’ve never heard before - loud and airy, almost comical if it weren’t for the sincere rumble toward the end.

“Dinner party! Oh yes. Absolutely. With little vol-au-vents and hors d’ouvres.”

“A must have.”

“I agree, darling. It’s a date.”

As he puts his vape back in his pocket and bids you farewell with a small wave of those pale hands, you lean back on the closed door with an uncharacteristic light-headedness.

-

Darling.

You’re given too much time to stew on it, the slight exuberant lilt of his voice. The roundness of his eyes as he spoke with you in jest. The fact he didn’t smell like kitchen grease but instead some warm note of vetiver and menthol. The fact you even noticed how he smelled.

As a new evening rounds off you find yourself with little else to do but search for him behind the service window, and you’re quietly delighted by what you find.

The smattering of white-shock curls - back arched as he leans over the empty prep station, ass high in a light nonchalant sway as your fellow servers dash to visit the kitchen in search of dead plates to devour. The quirk of a brow as the head chef gives freely to those who ask, whittling down a single stale fry with small bites as he observes.

You hadn’t expected things to change after your encounter, and to that point, they definitely haven’t.

You’re just more aware of him now. 

When he catches you watching almost immediately from afar, you offer him a small grin whilst he shifts to wholly capture your gaze. A challenge. The corner of his mouth lifts as he moves to hold your stare, calm and cool; with that fox-like tilt of his head to the side. 

You could picture it. 

The linger after lock-up, satchel on his shoulder as he catches you waiting for him. 

The slight moment of bewilderment before it becomes easy banter - even though restrained - once more. A quip on his part, maybe; some query as to what you’re waiting for as he hangs onto your every word in focused anticipation.

Maybe a drink at the bar down the road - but more likely in your mind a stop at the nearest off-licence to pick up a bottle or two of that wine he likes, as you dance around each other in a waiting quiet, bristling. Fluorescent corner-store lights giving his hair that unnatural sheen while he prowls the aisles and heads to the till, head turned back to see you waiting; eyes on him at the door. He’s heavy lidded the whole walk to his, hands kept to themselves for the walk up the stairs. The rattle of keys in the lock.

You reckon his flat - it has to be a flat, he couldn’t keep a whole house on your wage - is littered with burnt incense sticks and plush rugs and cushions in every jewel tone you can possibly imagine yet it feels so very him. He ushers you through to the living room and the awkward dance begins with the sofa, but he keeps you at ease. Collects wine glasses from the kitchen and pours with a flourish before settling back onto the seat and encouraging you with some typically witty output to do the same. 

Candles. You didn’t see him lighting them, but they’re lit. The air is heavy with orange flower, patchouli; musk - vetiver and menthol as he exhales, insisting you’re okay to smoke if you like, but passing you his vape wordlessly as you reach for it. Fingers brushing as you do. You talk for a small while, but you both know why you’re here.

His eyes move to the open buttons of your chest as he deftly wets his bottom lip, and you take it as your chance to place your glass on the side table and ask if you’re okay to shed the shirt completely. It’s far too warm in there. 

The candles, obviously. That’s why.

His coy nod, the languid blink as he watches your fingers dance your shirt open and pry the black shirt from your chest. Your deep exhale as you settle back into the sofa, lying slightly back with your legs angled toward him; glass back in hand.

His breath hitches. You notice it. He’s practically purring.

When he sets his glass aside in a pretence of pouring more wine, you reach for his arm to halt him from filling yours - now empty - and like a tense spring, he snaps. 

Time slows as he reaches for your wrist and tilts his head once more, your enthusiastic nod giving him the permission he seeks; and brings your hand quickly down the solid span of his torso to the achingly hard bulge of his cock, letting your palm rest over the top of his trousers. 

Wet. Fuck.  

His slow-primal groan as you gently stroke at the sodden patch of precum, cupping to warm him through his clothes whilst he bucks lightly toward you. Towards the pressure, the warmth you can provide.

From then, you can feel yourself growing sticky. Shuffling as you race to disrobe. You picture the stony length of his cock freed from those awful work trousers and glistening something bulbous and glassy in the low light, your own fevered want reaching its peak as you bare yourself and he pulls you into a kneeling hover over him.

To feel the soft velvet of his tip brushing your arousal. There’s no need for foreplay. No need for any preparation of the sort, you’re both craving the relief. He offers his hand to catch a pool of your spit and lubricates his length in long, steady jerks. 

Even they can’t mask the shudder of his breath. The fluttering of those smoky lashes as he rubs himself onto your waiting hole, watching; allowing a slip inside every few moments and waiting for your eager gasp each and every time.

Then, you sink onto him - and it’s bliss. Complete and utter bliss. You’ve never felt so full nor so weak in your whole entire life and for a moment you’re worried he’s ruined you. His heady moans of pleasure as you adjust around him. The space where you meet, where he impales you; runs soaking with arousal and sweat. 

You move to ride him like your life depends on it. You’re his sweet little thing, his angel; and you are being so very good for him as you take his cock. His palms remain glued to the fat of your ass whilst his cool fingers dig deep into the ripe flesh and he bounces you up and down on his forearms with some remarkable strength.

His. 

His, his; his. His beautiful thing. He’s perfect under you, with his pathetic desperate whimpers and the face of a wanton adonis; sturdy shoulders your anchor, for fear you’ll simply float away with sheer unbridled pleasure.

When he cums, he makes a point to do it inside you. Holds your thighs down so you can’t hop off nor be tempted to ride him through his peak; so you can feel him twitch and pulse inside you, ropes and ropes of his thick, hot spend painting your insides. His.

He’s called back to finish the last few pots on the side, and you silently rejoice in your sticky save as he winks goodbye through the bar window; eyes lingering on his ass as he walks slowly back to the service sink.

Fuck.

[starzshopoflove]

Simon "ghost" Riley x Reader

Notes: fem reader! i hc ghost doesn't wear a mask when he's off duty, this is just whatever rot my mouse brain creates, age gap but not to crazy, sfw mostly ,size kink if you squint, literally just me projecting onto reader sorry

no thoughts just ghost meeting cute little civvie reader in a shop when he's just trying to get his shopping done after coming back from a mission just wanting to fill his fridge with enough beer and groceries that vaguely resemble food

Simon watching you struggle to reach the flour from a set high shelf in the aisle, grumbling to yourself about "who fucking needs flour anyway" still trying to reach it and he just pluck it off the shelf and drops it in your cart before making his way to another aisle and your just left looking stupid watching this giant trudge away with a little blue tesco basket in tow

Simon who notices you at the same book shop he frequents, but your perched behind the counter doing god knows what ( vaguely resembles inventory but hey do what you will) calculator in hand as he peeks from behind a bookshelf trying to remember where he's seen you before.

Civvie reader who passes her days working quietly in a book shop and living in a simple one room flat indulging her romantic needs in fiction too nervous to actually talk to men, fictional ones satisfying her needs better. That is until you see some books on the counter sliding over to scan them.

"Your total's 23.55" you mumble looking at the screen "Cash or Card?" you add before lifting your head to meet the brick wall of a muscle man. Oh OH, no thoughts as you just stare at his pecs in your line of sight thanking whatever god you believe in for the sight before you, better then anything your little brain could muster up even with the detailed descriptions authors would spit out onto the pages you read

You violently peel your eyes away from the most beautiful pair of man tits you've ever seen to see what man was the owner, and by god do you wish you werent so bad around men. I mean the wind practically got knocked out of your lungs as you let out a barely audible squeak watching this man fish in his pockets for his wallet

Messy blonde hair that was in that weird phase of curly but not really, a nose that looks like its seen a good fight, deep set brown eyes, and a few healed scars settled on the skin. Aged but like wine, a really really fine wine

"Right, cash" His hands fiddling through the wallet to pull out the bank notes, while you prayed you didnt look like a hunger dog staring at his hands as they placed the cash on the counter.

Simon who watches the little bookshop employee look like she just got punched in the gut and was trying not groan as she quickly rang him up, Do i smell? he thinks to himself

Simon who watches your smaller hands shuffle the cash into the register, noting how they're free of calluses, nailed neat and slightly grown, soft.

Simon who leaves the bookstore thinking of a excuse to go again tomorrow, not to see the bookshop girl or anything, he has his reasons!! he just hasn't thought of it yet!!

You start looking up from your notes for your class when the shop bell jingles hoping to see the mystery man whos built exactly like your favorite webcomic character but with the gruff and mature aura of that mc from the game your friend made you play that you cant quite remember. Only disappointed when its just another customer , until later in the day the man returns again.

But its much later in the day and you've switched on the shops warm lights, turning off the ac letting the place warm up as you hear the door jingle again, mystery man making his way to the counter your eyes following his every step, meaty thighs

You who perks up when his forearms settle at the counter suddenly eyes locking onto yours and suddenly very glad you tidied up a bit today, tinted chapstick, perfume, cleaner turtle neck, lashes, lipgloss, earrings ahm

"Tesco" he grumbles out unmoving

"what" well thats not what you were expecting to hear

"You were the girl , couldnt reach the flour yeah?" oh that was him

"Oh, that was you? thank you?" oh what the fuck were you supposed to say?? oh thank you freakishly tall man who watched me struggle?? let me take your whole cock in my mouth while you call me a good pet feeding your meaty length down my throat??

"Yeah" Simon didnt think to much on what to do now, gaze getting awkward now that hes got his confirmation

"Did you need anything" you finally broke the silence, god its fuckin tense in here and hes so close, you wanna just get a sniff but thats hardly workplace behavior doesn't matter if its your dads shop or not.

"Mhm, ye got any cook books?"

"yeah, section 12, shelf 9" whos he cooking for? his wife? i dont see a ring? maybe a long time girlfriend?? who wouldnt snatch up this actual beefcake

"Thanks, tryna cook something new for myself. Flats been quiet" He mumbled like speaking too much would give him a headache

SImon purchased his books same stare at the girls hand like last time as she took his money. God do something you look like a creep staring at this poor girls hands.

"Got a notepad luv?" again that same punched face returned, is she alright? he thought to himself

Oh he just called me luv oh fuck dont wheeze dont wheeze just hand him the pen and paper like a good employee, come on. Oh god dont stare at his arms, are those tattoos oh my god

Sliding back the notepad simon made pace of grabbing his cook book a slipping out the shop just as quick as he went in

You who looked at the notepad almost slipping back out of your chair

"Simon 44 xxx xxx xxx"

Children were singing, the angels sang their songs, the trees regrew in that parking lot down the street, healthcare in america was just made free, and you just got the phone number of a man built like a double door fridge that you have every intention of climbing

[calmcoldevening]

Hi, I was wondering if you could do a Micheal Myers X Dr. Loomis’s daughter reader one shot? I thought it’d be an interesting read lol. If you’re not Interested or too busy that’s completely fine! I just haven’t seen any one else do this request. Honestly, I would request more, but I’m always too nervous to talk to people online and in person. Sorry for the unnecessary rambling! Thank you and have a lovely day or night ( depending on what time you see this lol )!

Michael Myers x reader, who is Dr. Loomis's daughter

The boy with the eyes of the devil. Monster.

You didn’t fully understand what your father was talking about, after all, at that time you were only six years old, but you could say with confidence that this “something” made your father terribly nervous and even frightened him, although he would never admit it.

It was an ordinary early November morning. The weather was cloudy, all the streets were filled with milky fog. The damp air settled unpleasantly in my lungs with each new breath. You sat in the back seat of the car while your father put the key in the ignition. Your small hands nervously fiddled with the edge of your seat belt. Not to say that this was your first trip to your father’s place of work, no. On the contrary, you often went there with him, because sometimes there was no one to leave you with at home, almost all of your dad’s colleagues knew you. And yet today the atmosphere in the car was unpleasantly oppressive and dense, you could literally cut it with a knife. It seemed that your father was weighed down by some thoughts, but you did not dare to ask him about it.

The journey to the psychiatric hospital took quite a long time because your father decided to take a longer but safer route. He didn't want any accident to happen due to such thick fog.

When you arrived at the hospital, it was already around seven in the morning. You approached a tall building, which, despite its appearance and neat paths for walking with patients, inspired subconscious fear in you. Your father gently but firmly took your hand.It was quite dark outside, so when you walked inside, an unpleasant greenish light hit your eyes, creating a strangely tense atmosphere among the white walls of the hospital. Your father immediately went to some office. It was a small office, filled with various folders and documents. In the middle of the room, at a dark table, sat the man with whom your father was now talking. You didn’t pay much attention to their conversation, completely captivated by the small colorful fish in the aquarium. Your children's palms carefully pressed against the slightly cloudy glass, joyfully following with your eyes the colorful fish hiding among the tall corals.

Finally, your father called your name, causing you to reflexively turn your head in his direction. His voice was gentle and calm, but it still contained his characteristic sternness.

 “I need you to stay here for a while, okay? I have work in another office. Will you be a good girl for me?” Loomis asked with a small smile, patting your head. In response, you only nodded briefly.

You were always a smart and understanding child, so Loomis was not afraid to leave you alone. Although he knew that you liked to play by your own rules from time to time, the man really trusted you and your smart mind for a child. After all, you are your father's daughter.

 About fifteen minutes passed before you realized that you were tired of watching the office fish. What's the point of staring at them for a long time if all they do is swim back and forth and back? You definitely should have taken some toys from home. Finally, when boredom took over, you carefully left the office, hoping to find your father and proudly declare that you had nothing to do. Wandering along the corridor, you caught some nurse and asked where your dad was now. This kind soul, of course, didn’t know that she shouldn’t tell you about this, but everyone in this place knew you as a smart and calm child, so she told you the right office without any problems.

It was a particularly remote room at the end of the corridor. The dim green light barely reached here, and there were no windows in this part of the hospital. You quietly opened the right door, wincing slightly at the disgusting creak, and went inside. Inside there was another door with a small window to the right of it. You walked closer to the window, because of your short stature you could barely see what was happening on the other side of the glass. But you perfectly saw your father sitting with his back to you. A strange boy sat next to him. His blond hair was disheveled and looked somewhat dirty, and his empty dark eyes looked simultaneously into nothingness, but at the same time into your very soul. He looked no older than your age, although he was obviously larger than you in size. Your father was telling him something, but the boy did not react to his words at all, he just looked blankly out the window opposite. Did he look at you? Unknown.But it seemed to you that the moment you came into his field of vision, the boy’s head shifted slightly to the side.

This was the first time you saw this boy, a most strange but intriguing meeting. Michael Myers. That’s what your father called him, looking through the child’s personal file in your kitchen at home with a cup of coffee in his hands.

The next time you saw this boy was only about two weeks later. Your father purposefully brought you to Michael's room, hoping that perhaps you, as a child, could establish some kind of contact with this strange boy. Loomis gently squeezed your hand, looking down at you with a smile.

“This is a special boy. You should try playing with him, okay?” You nodded curtly in response. "That’s my girl."

Loomis led you into the same small room, not even suspecting that you had already been here once. Your own cunning caused a small, naive smile to bloom on your face. Loomis led you to Michael sitting on the bed and sat you on the chair next to him.

“I’ll be behind this door if anything happens to you, okay honey?” With these words, Loomis left the room.

You carefully sat down on the chair, folding your hands in your lap. The boy in front of you looked almost like a lifeless doll, so empty was the look in his dark eyes. He looked somewhere ahead and didn't even blink. You smiled slightly, deciding to use all your charm and friendliness.

“My name is Y/N. And what is your name?"

The boy didn't react. But you could have sworn you saw the focus of his eyes shift from the emptiness in front of him to you, seemingly appraising you. A pleasant burning sensation lit up in your heart when you realized that this boy was truly “special”, as your dad told you, and not some emotionless vegetable. It seems like that’s what doctors called such people, no? You weren't sure. But you really wanted to appear grown up and work like your dad in the future, so you wanted to start getting some knowledge about it right now.

“Your name is Michael, right?” you smiled your childish, somewhat toothless smile, “You don’t really like to talk, do you? I think yes. Then do you mind if I do the talking?” There was only silence in response. You giggled, “Silence is a sign of consent! So, I'm six. Probably you too? I haven’t been told much about you, to be honest.”

Now you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms over your chest and pouting your lips in a mock pout.

“This is so awkward. I want to grow up quickly so I won't be treated like a child anymore! Oh, you know, I really like to draw! I don't think you'll tell me what you like, after all, it's just me talking now, but next time let me bring sketchbooks and pencils? I think you'll enjoy drawing too! It's really interesting."

One moment there is darkness, and the next there is this gentle voice and a warm feeling of presence. Other... people radiated only coldness and anger towards him, but this pure soul was strangely kind and welcoming. He had already felt it once, when that unpleasant and stern man was in front of him, but then she was far away. Now she was right in front of him. A girl. She told him her name, and even tried to start some kind of cute, even somewhat stupid, childish conversation with him. There was absolutely no point in talking to this girl, but for some reason her presence was strangely comforting and almost pleasant. It was as if he was little again, at home. But now he knew that he did not have that warm, old home. Not after the voice in his head told him to kill his dirty sister, no. And yet now he wanted the presence of this girl, although he himself did not know why.

You have become a frequent visitor to this psychiatric hospital. You usually visited Michael once or twice a week, and Loomis very soon noticed the results. The boy really opened up to you. Even if it really couldn’t be seen with a simple glance, Samuel, as a psychiatrist, had long noticed the difference: the way Michael’s head tilted when he listened with interest to your stories, or the way he gave you certain unambiguous answers in his own way. It seemed that the two of you had your own language, understandable only to you two. Michael even smiled next to you (although it could hardly be called a smile, but the corners of his lips curled up slightly nervously when he saw you, although it only happened for a split second). For Loomis, this was indeed a definite discovery. The man noticed how the boy sat on his bed for a long time, waiting for you, and seemed to be calculating the time and day. The hospital did not tell him today’s date, because there was no particular need for this, but Michael independently realized that you usually come on Tuesday or Wednesday and always Friday. Surprisingly, his cold heart opened up to you.

At first, this really encouraged Loomis, because perhaps his patient was beginning to recover. But after two or three months he realized that he was mistaken. Michael's personality development only happened in exceptional moments when you were around. The rest of the time, he did not react in any way to the requests or words of the staff and doctors. Michael has become attached to you. No, rather, to some extent he became obsessed with you. Loomis saw that deadly metallic glint in Michael's dark eyes as the man walked back into the room, saying your time is up. Michael’s childish fists almost twitched, as if an obsessive desire to hurt the doctor arose in his mind, if only you would remain nearby.

As the years passed, the doctor realized that getting you into Myers' "treatment" was a bad idea. Now you are ten years old, and Loomis has reduced your meetings to twice a month. He noticed how this affected the boy.

Now Michael absolutely refused to make contact with any of the doctors, spending all his free time in his room, staring blankly at the ceiling. His wall near the bed was covered with your drawings, and on a small table in the corner of the room lay a half-empty pack of pencils and a new album. You brought it during your last visit, saying that you would draw it next time. Five weeks have passed since that time, and Michael still hasn’t dared to touch the ill-fated album. The cover with the cats was already fairly covered with dust, and the pencils were covered in red and black. Michael obediently waited for the next time, knowing that you would not deceive. It is so? You always came back, no matter how badly he behaved with doctors, right? He will wait as long as necessary, like a little faithful puppy.

The guy stopped counting the days, and the world around him turned into endless darkness. All these brainless doctors and orderlies, whose souls are each blacker than the other. Vile, dirty people with no compassion. He missed his little flower. A pure, cheerful creature who brings colors into his life, and with them light. Her soul was the only source of light in this endless dark pit. Why was it taken from him? They took away his source of warmth and light, his little sun. She will be back. She'll definitely be back. She's different. He knows.

---

It was an ordinary cloudy day at the Illinois State Mental Hospital. The sky was covered with a dense layer of gray clouds, threatening to burst into torrential rain, and fog covered everything around. The evening swayed the trees with thin tables with unprecedented force, carrying already fairly yellowed leaves for miles around in a simple dance.

You sighed nervously, looking at the fading nature outside the window. Finally, you turned your head in the direction of your father, who was enthusiastically giving you another lecture of instructions, completely not noticing that you were absolutely not interested in it.

"..dad. I’ve read his personal file three times already, I understand everything, okay?”

The man frowned, but exhaled in defeat, folding his hands behind his back. Even when he relaxed his face, a few wrinkles on his face remained, clearly indicating the man's age and the stress of his job.

“I know, I’m just worried about you.Are you sure you want to practice medicine with this particular patient? You know, there are several dozen more patients in your specialty, and less dangerous ones..."

“Dad,” you interrupt him with a frown, “You and I have already discussed this several times, haven’t we? Don't worry. After all, he is your patient, I know you will intervene if something goes wrong.”

Finally the man gave in. He nodded in agreement and briefly hugged you, patting you on the head like when you were a child. A short “ok” left his lips, and together you headed towards the ill-fated office.

The sound of a door opening. Michael didn't bother to turn his head towards the entering doctor. The guy knew that now again the meaningless dialogues on the part of the doctor and even more meaningless taking of pills would begin. He was healthy, the guy was sure of it. He had long ago become accustomed to the emptiness in his chest that had become painfully familiar to him and the noise of endless thoughts in his mind. And he didn't want to change that. It was as if, over such a long period of time, this state had become like a protective cocoon for him.

The room was filled with an unobtrusive sweetish aroma of some fruity perfume, from which Michael could barely restrain himself from wrinkled his nose. The heavy silence in the room was interrupted only by the steady tapping of women's heels. It had been a long time since he had been visited by a female doctor, something new.

"Hello, Michael."

These few words made the guy's heart clench unpleasantly. He stared in front of him, now fully feeling that long-forgotten feeling of warmth and light presence. That bright figure of white light appeared before my eyes again, like the purest angel on earth. A short sigh escaped from his chest, and his lips almost reflexively bent into a pitiful semblance of a smile. Still, he was really glad to see her. He knew she would return. He knew, even if that pathetic old man and his employees told Michael otherwise. He knew you were different.

"It's been a long time... I'm really sorry."

He remained silent, instead absorbing her every new word like a sponge thrown into the sea. Now he didn't care that she left, because she came back. The guy tried to remember everything: the aroma of her perfume, which now seemed so painfully sweet and pleasant, driving his entire pulsating mind crazy; the sound of her angelic voice is like a gentle cradle, lulling him in her tender embrace. He tried to remember everything. Now her fragile image filled his entire mind. He wanted to touch, touch, feel, show that she was his. Over the many years of being here, he realized that she was his, and he had to prove it to everyone. His light, his delicate flower, his sun.The guy was ready to fulfill all her instructions and requests, if only she would stay with him as long as possible. Stayed forever.

Now the girl came to him every day, and Michael could not imagine anything better. It was as if all his dreams had come true.

She was his personal nurse.

In the mornings she sometimes combed his hair. Usually it stuck out and was very messy and dirty, but now his curly hair looked clean and soft.

She brought him food, and sometimes Michael deliberately chose to pretend to be a brainless vegetable, if only she would feed him herself, gently bringing the spoon to his bitten lips.

Michael could have sworn that there was actually excitement and tenderness in her actions, as if she was worried and genuinely cared about him. And just thinking about it made his soul warm. Now he heard her voice every day, felt her gentle touches, felt her trepidation and care. But this was not enough. He wanted more. Michael felt a strange burning sensation when she talked to other people in the hospital, especially men. He began to feel an unpleasant itch, and images were scrolling through his head of how he could kill this vile guard and then pull her into his protective arms. Michael wanted her hands on his neck or in his hair, and his hands on her soft hips. He wanted her for himself and no one else.

---

That morning you came again to give Michael pills. You were the only one Michael allowed to give him his medicine. He would even drink poison from your hands. The main condition was that there should be no security either inside or outside.

You moved closer, gently lifting Michael's chin with your gentle fingers. He wrapped his arms around your hips, looking up at you, and obediently opened his mouth. You placed the colored tablet on his tongue, to which he quickly swallowed it, without water. The man’s hands gently roamed over your soft flesh, pressing you as close to him as possible. You gently massaged his tangled hair, lightly scratching his itchy skin from constant thoughts.

“Michael..” his name sounds like the sweetest honey on your tongue, the man is ready to listen to this for an eternity, “I’m sorry, but today is the last day of my practice.”

Michael raised his eyebrows slightly, snuggling into your gentle hand.He wanted you to explain what it was about and why you had such a sad expression on your face. The guy wanted answers, but you perfectly remembered your father’s request not to tell him about it. This could cause Michael to become aggressive. Still, you didn’t want to hurt him. So you just briefly hugged him by his strong shoulders and briefly kissed his forehead.

The next day you didn't come.

And every other day too.

Did he do something wrong? The evil doctors did not allow you to come to him again? Michael had many questions, and yet, the answer for him was the arrogant smiling face of Dr. Loomis.

---

It was Halloween evening. You have already distributed all your candy to the children in colorful costumes, who for a good few hours interrupted your peaceful existence with their constant knocking on the door. Now you were sitting relaxed on the sofa in the living room and watching your favorite horror movie, sipping sweet soda with pleasure. And so, at the next moment, when something terrible was about to happen in the film, you heard that ill-fated doorbell again. With an annoyed sigh, you stood up from the couch, setting the soda on the table, and headed towards the door. To your surprise, there was no one on the street. But as soon as you closed the door, a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist. You tried to escape, hitting the stranger in the stomach with your elbows, to which you only received a muffled grunt. A strange metallic smell filled my nose. You turned around, feeling your heart beating wildly in fear in your chest. Your eyes met the emotionless eye-shaped cutouts on the latex mask. Is this some kind of joke? You wanted to scream, but were interrupted by the sharp sensation of someone else's lips on your neck. How did he manage to roll up the edge of his mask so quickly? You bit your lower lip in fear, pulling off the unfortunate mask with one sharp movement. Now a pair of sad dark eyes are staring at you.

“Michael?.. How you.. why are you here?”

The man just muttered something unintelligible, rubbing his nose against the skin of your neck.

Loomis worriedly dialed your phone number, putting the phone to his ear. His most dangerous and unstable patient has escaped. Possible options for his direction were his younger sister Laurie and... you.

“Y/N, baby, are you okay? I'm in the hospital now and Myers has escaped! If he headed towards you and something happened to you, I don’t know what I’ll do...” The doctor muttered nervously, wiping his own forehead, sweaty from stress, with his palm.

“No, it's okay, dad. I didn’t see him,” came the answer from the other side of the line. A steady, quiet snoring could be heard in the background.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Just To Say

Marc Spector x GN!Reader • Rating: T•Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • MK Bingo 2024 Masterlist • ko-fi •

Summary: Your notes to each other are a little unconventional.

🌛For @moonknight-events MK Bingo Spring 2024 Event🌜

A/N: Gestures vaguely.

Warnings: fluff, reader has a job where they have a desk and aren't at home, please let me know if I've missed a warning!

Word Count: 451

You open your lunchbox. The snap of the plastic lid crackling around the room. 

You shouldn’t really be eating at your desk, you should be taking a proper break, a rest from the work piled in front of you. But this week was just too hectic. There was too much work, and you just didn’t want to sacrifice the tiny sliver of breathing room you had managed to wrangle - that space that put you just a nose ahead of the deadlines. 

You chew on your thumbnail, fishing around to grab your food while still staring at the work in front of you.

Your hand finds a scrap of paper instead of your prepacked lunch and you grin, already knowing what it is before you even have to look. 

This is worth a little pause.

You pull the neatly folded piece of paper out so you can admire it fully. 

Despite its razor sharp neat edge, the actual paper is a roughly ripped piece of newspaper, every side having been torn messily. Newspaper. Your grin widens. That was new. 

Inside are block letters written in black felt tip pen. The lines have been drawn over many times, tracing the words so that they stand out harshly against the block printed text. 

The note reads: “I HOPE YOU HAVE A HORRIBLE DAY!” followed by three hearts. 

You chuckle to yourself and refold the note before placing it, very carefully, in your bag for safekeeping. You would add it to your collection when you got home. 

Marc wakes up groggily. Both Steven and Jake still fast asleep in the headspace. 

He screws his face up as he pats the space beside him in bed, eyes still closed, and grumbles when he finds it cold and empty. 

You must have thought he needed the rest and either woken up before your alarm, or, most likely, he had slept through it. 

He couldn’t remember a time when he had slept so soundly before he had shared a bed with you. 

Marc swears lightly when he looks at the time and, a little begrudgingly, gets up. He shuffles to the bathroom, still wiping sleep from his eyes and then laughs loudly when he catches sight of the mirrored cupboard on the wall. 

Bluetacked to the left side is a note written on an old receipt. A receipt. His smile widens. That was different. 

In block red capitals written messily with a ballpoint pen reads: “YOU SUCK!” followed by three Xs. 

He carefully takes the note off the mirror and touches the letters lightly as he beams at it. He’d have to show Jake and Steven when they were up before he put it in his safe place. 

____________________________________________

Thank you for reading!

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[legitalicat]

Out of Time

Chapter 1 - "Along Blackwater Bay"

AN: This dedication has been removed. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy your works.

If you love this header go check out zaldritzosrose for more amazing work! She is tagged on the series masterlist and on my welcome post!

Find the series Master list here!

Summary: Princess Y/N Velaryon awakes on the shore of Blackwater Bay confused, hurt, and alone. She is found and escorted to the Red Keep, where she learns the circumstances surrounding her awakening.

TW: memory loss, reader is AFAB, talks/descriptions of injury, first person POV because I suck at any other POV I am sorry

Word count: 3.7 K

I awoke on the shores of King’s Landing, the water from Blackwater Bay rushing up my lower legs. My heart was pounding as I sat up. There was no reasonable explanation as to how I ended up here. Last night I went to sleep in my bed, feeling rather warm and fuzzy from the wine I had consumed at dinner.

The early morning light was shining through the mist that was coming off the water. Slowly, I made my way into a standing position. My black dress was torn around the hem, soaked from the sea water. My muscles were sore and my bones stiff. Every breath I took felt as though I was being punched in the left side. I was near certain my brown hair was wild, no longer in the neat braid I most commonly kept it in.

There weren’t any citizens on the shores this time of morning. For many, they would have already went out in their boats to begin their fishing for the day. The others, it was simply too early to start the day. However, I did see two city watchmen doing their rounds on the docks.

“Excuse me!” I shouted to them, waving my arms. They approached me, their gold cloaks shining in the sun. I recognized neither of them.

“Princess Y/N?” One asked as he stopped in front of me. I nodded softly. “Come with us.”

I could not really tell which guardsmen they were. They were in full armor, donning a helm and chainmail covering all but their eyes. Being roughly the same height as each other, that wasn’t even helpful to determine who I was following. However, I knew that nobody wearing golden cloaks would bring any harm to me. My stepfather would have their heads if my mother didn’t get to them first.

So, I made the only decision I could make in this instance. Silence laid over us like a thick fog as I walked with them through the city streets. One in front of me, one behind me, their hands on the swords at all times. We went to the barracks at which point they told me to stay in the front room. The one that had walked in front of me went off , I suppose to inform his commander of this situation, while the other man stood in the room with me. It was not long before there were a few other watchmen and even a serving girl to sit with me.

Nobody dared to speak to me other than what was necessary. Even when I threatened them with my status, first born child of the heir to the Iron Throne and betrothed to her heir, so that one day I would be Queen, did not loosen their tongues. None of my questions were answered. All that was said was that my mother would answer any question I had.

They spent longer than I thought necessary preparing a carriage to take me up to the Red Keep. I was almost certain I heard their commander send a small group of men to shut down the streets between here and the Red Keep but that couldn’t be right. Never had the streets been closed because of my travels, as there had never been a time that I was in danger. Once he received word that all the streets were closed and nobody would be looking to the street, I was put into a carriage.

My ride to the Red Keep was done with the singular maid in the carriage with me, one watchmen controlling the carriage, and three others riding around on horseback. They weren’t brought to my precession until after I was already in my seat. And still, nobody spoke to me. I could only glance out the windows at the city to try to see the citizens of King’s Landing, but it seemed though I had heard the Watch’s Commander correctly and the men did completely empty the streets.

It was midday by the time that the carriage stopped in front of the door to the keep. The door was opened and I was offered a hand to help me out. It was the first protocol that had been kept in my presence. And now that I was on the ground, I finally saw the first people besides the Gold Cloaks and the maid.

At the top of the stairs stood my mother, my step grandmother holding her hand tightly as they both looked at the carriage. Queen Alicent had always been a forceful presence in my life, demanding things of my mother and father that were crude and unfair. Though she never liked my brothers, I seemed to be near and dear to her in a way that not even her own daughter was. One could almost convince me she viewed me separately from them as though I were anyone but my mother’s daughter.

Flanking each of them were their respective sides of the family. My twin, my betrothed, Jacaerys stood beside my mother. He was more shocked than I had ever seen him when we made eye contact. There was Lucerys beside him, who looked older than he should as he was a man grown, and the same could just about be said about Joffrey. The other two boys on my mother’s side could’ve only been Aegon III and Viserys II, my two baby brothers, but they were not babies. They were easily nine and seven respectively. It shouldn’t have been possible. It was only last night that they could have easily fit in my arms, now they were half my height.

When I looked to Alicent’s side, Aegon and Aemond stood beside her with Helaena further back. Her three children, Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor stood hand in hand beside of her. Again, everyone looked older than they should, older than when last I saw them.

My step father Daemon and my step sisters Rhaena and Baela were not with my mother, but the maid whispered to me that they were visiting our grandparents in Driftmark. She gave me no answers to any other question.

Out of everyone, there were three people that desperately wanted to break free from the crowd. Obviously my mother was trying to hold some decorum, some sort of semblance of what it means to be a Targaryen, even though I could see her inching closer. Jace was completely frozen with shock, the pull that existed between us not enough to motivate his feet. Then there was Aemond, who seemed to be willing to disregard all things that could be considered proper as he took the steps two at a time to close the distance between us.

His arms were around me before I could blink, and despite the physical pain when he touched my side, it caused a comfortable feeling in my brain that soothed something inside of me. I returned his affections, desperate for some sort of connection. As much as it had always annoyed my brothers, Aemond and I were very close growing up. He and I were the last to get dragons, the last to fulfill what it means to be a Targaryen. It binds you in ways that you can’t explain to anyone else.

“Byka zaldrīzes,” he whispered to me. Little Dragon, the name he gave me the moment he claimed Vhagar, to assure me one day I would have one too. “How I have missed you.”

“I don’t understand, Aemond. Why is everyone acting as though I am not real? One would think I died.” I asked him, loud enough so that my voice would carry.

“You have been gone for nearly six years,” my mother said. I pulled myself from Aemond’s grip to look at her.

“What?” my voice was cracked under the pressure that was building in my chest. “No. No. I was just with you all last night. I would know if I had been gone.”

Then I turned my gaze to Jace, who still looked as though he has seen a ghost. His inability to come to me, the way he watched me like I was about to dissolve in the wind, not even commenting on Aemond’s grasp on me, it told me all I need to know. The words were true and I had missed out on six years.

But I needed him beside me. He was my brother, my twin, I have existed for as long as he has and will continue to exist as long as he does. We were written in the stars, always destined for each other. We had given each other everything as we knew we were to be married one day.

“Issa dārys,” I called to him. My king. He will be my king one day, a good husband and father to my future children. We will rule the kingdom together, side by side. We’ve known this for our entire lives, and once we could really understand it, there was no turning back.

He slowly descended the stairs to me. Our eyes stayed glued to each other as he closed the distance. My body yearned for him. He was my other half; we were not two separate entities, simply just two pieces of the same soul.

When he was within arm’s reach of me, his ability to show restraint faltered. He grabbed me by the face and kissed me, all regard for propriety out the window. But it wasn’t as though I minded. I belonged to Jace, I always had, so it was only natural that I returned his affections. Propriety be damned.

It was less than a minute, rather tame compared to all other kisses we’ve shared, but the moment it was over, I become increasingly aware of cracks forming in my heart. His forehead resting against mine, I could guarantee I was home. I was safe as long as we were together.

My mother had informed me that I was not to be alone for the coming weeks. When we were alone in the room I had growing up here, she held me to her and cried. She insisted on me having a bath before I see the Maesters. A few of her most trusted maids helped me out of my dress and into the bath. The way her face contorted in mental anguish, tears forming in her eyes, as she looked over my body was something I would never forget. A glance in a mirror showed I had bruises and scars scattered across my body, including over my ribcage on the left, and a busted lip I was unaware of until now.

“If it brings any comfort, I do not remember it happening,” I said to her quietly as she sat beside the tub. There was a failed attempt to prove to her I was okay as I went to pour water over my hair, but the stretching motion caused enough pain I lost my breath.

“It causes me more worry than anything,” she told me. Her voice was fragile in the same way a flower is, soft and delicate, able to be broken in one move if anyone chose. “But it is nothing you need to fret over. We shall have the Maesters examine you and treat you, in a few weeks it will be as though this didn’t happen.”

Mother asked the maids to go inform the Maesters of our need and then sent one to bring me food from the kitchens. I think it was in equal part that she needed to feel useful but also needing to just be alone with me. There was no part of my brain that could even fathom what she had been feeling for these years.

She caught me up on all of the happenings in our family while she washed me. The night I had gone missing, my grandsire was greeted by The Stranger. She lost the babe she had been pregnant with within a few days of that, a girl that was named Visenya. It was an impossible amount of grief to deal with in such a short time and all I wanted was to take away all of her pain and suffering.

“Did Otto not try to put Aegon on the throne?” I whispered to her as she took her time gently washing my hair. She refused to let it wait for the maids, insisting that five years is long enough for someone else to care for me.

“He wanted to, but when I sent Alicent a letter informing her of your disappearance, she halted her father’s plans,” she told me. “Nobody, not Aegon nor Aemond, cared for the throne after you were gone.”

“But why? She has hated you for as long as I can remember. They have hated us for just as long. What difference did I make?” I asked.

“Oh sweet girl, they have never hated you. I cannot say how they felt about your brothers, nor can I deny the resentment Alicent and I have felt for one another. You, however, have been loved throughout it all. You were the light of your grandsire’s life, Alicent has adored you from the moment she laid eyes on you. Aegon and Aemond both used to beg for your hand. You, darling, take after your father.” She ran the water through my hair, rinsing all of the dirt and oils from it. I ran my right hand through it, as that was the only arm I could lift so high without crying, and it felt much cleaner than it had before.

“Which father?” I spoke, barely above a whisper, standing with her assistance.

“Both Laenor and Ser Harwin loved you dearly, as they were both loved by you. You enchanted them from the moment you made your entrance into the world, and you did so until they died. You are both of them, the best of them, in a perfect package.”

I could only nod. Jace and I knew from a very young age that Laenor was not our blood. He claimed us all the same, cared for us as much as he could. Ser Harwin, though, made every difference in our lives. Even if Luke wasn’t completely aware, our father spent every moment he could watching over us. He trained with the boys every morning, attended my lessons as much as possible, trained me in swords in the eve. He was there for Luke’s birth, was there within a few hours of Joffrey’s. And the love he held for my mother, to be willing to love her from a distance and sire children he could never claim…it was admirable.

“Jace never married,” I stated. It was not a question, but an observation. I knew far too well that if he had, he would never have put the shame on his wife that would’ve been given to her when he kissed me so publicly.

“The two of you share a special connection. He could not bring himself to agree to any marriage proposal until we knew one way or another. He said that he would only be with his other half unless there were no other options,” she spoke softly. She helped me into a new dress, a beautiful sea green color to represent House Velaryon.

“So, until my body washed ashore somewhere?” I asked, a ghost of a laugh coming through. I could see a frown slowly creeping onto her face. “Mother, I’m sorry. I can’t Imagine how difficult the last few years have been.”

“You are back now, my darling girl. That is what matters,” she told me, sitting me in the nearest chair so that she could braid my hair. “Aegon asked me to annul his marriage to Helaena. Their’s was not a happy one, I do not wish that upon any of my family.”

I was grateful for her gentle touch as she worked carefully with my hair. It wasn’t as though my mother had ever been rough with me, but there was a gentleness that she always seemed to have whenever we were sick or hurt.

The first time Jace flew on Vermax, he pulled me onto the saddle. We both returned blistered and aching. Yet once it hit midnight and my fever had fully set in, it was realized I had an Infection because I wasn’t wearing proper dragon riding clothes and my skin was rubbed off until I was bleeding. She sat by my side for nearly a week then. She prayed to nearly every god, even the ones she had no faith in, and she was so soft with me you would think she was a mere common woman instead of the future Queen.

“And Aemond?” I asked her once she pulled her hands away from my hair.

“Refuses to marry. He has wanted to marry you since the two of you attempted to run off to Dragonstone when you were children,” she chuckled. “If I did not know you, I would say that was his idea.”

“In my defense, we had been speaking about the Valyrian traditions that have been lost. He and I were going to marry in the tradition of Valyria and then Jace and I would marry under the Seven,” I told her, a smile on my face.

I was approximately five years old when that became our plan in life. Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, so I would have two husbands. Of course, whenever Jace was told about this plan, he vehemently denied me. He said he would give me everything that I would ever need when he was king.

“He was hoping that Jace would find a new bride, so that when you came back he could have you,” she told me, taking my hands in hers. “Before you ask, yes. He was certain you would come back. He spent nearly a year searching all of Westeros for you on Vhagar. He only returned at the request of Helaena.”

“What do I do, mama?” I whispered. “It has been so long, so much has changed. Little Aegon and Viserys won’t even know me. Is Vhaela even alive?”

Vhaela was my dragon. She had been a wild dragon that approached King’s landing near six moons before my eighteenth nameday. She was the most gorgeous shade of amethyst, her scales glittering in the sunlight whenever I flew her. She had rested on a mountain not far out from the city and I snuck out of the castle to get a closer look. Never had I known of a dragon who was so calm and regal when being approached. It was like she was royalty and she knew exactly what the difference between us was. It was this confidence she carried that lead me to attempt to claim her, and she graciously agreed to a partnership with me.

“Vhaela is in the Dragon Pit. She enjoys flying when Aemond and Jace go, I believe she feels close enough to you through them to allow them to care for her. As for your younger brothers, we did not let them forget. They know you, not in the same way they know Jace, Luke, and Joffrey, but you are not a stranger to them,” she assured me. Her voice did not waiver in this. It was instead supported by a firmness that could only result from a confident truth.

She turned me to face her directly, hands starting to squeeze mine. The look on her face was so tender, so comforting, I wasn’t sure what to do except let a few tears leave my eyes. It all felt so overwhelming, and there was no certainty as to what I should do.

“You wished to be betrothed to Jace at a young age. Do you still wish it?” she asked me quietly. “Or does your heart desire another?”

“I love Jace with my entire being,” I told her firmly. It was everything I could do to ignore how my heart began racing.

“Save for the piece of your heart that has long been held by Aemond.”

My head dropped. There was nobody that I had ever told of my affections for Aemond. He had never exactly been subtle, that I would admit. A year before Luke’s claim to Driftmark was questioned, my Grandsire the King had requested my appearance at court. He wished to spend time with me. And during that time, Aemond and I grew as close as we were as children. Maybe even closer.

But that did not matter. Those were the adventures of a young girl. I was promised to Jace formally when my family came to King’s Landing. Any affections that I had for Aemond was left behind in that moment.

The kisses that we shared In the library or in the gardens were innocent. The nights spent in my chambers, talking until the sun comes up. We absolutely did not do anything that was considered something that could ruin me. We did not make each other come undone for hours every night.

“That was a girl’s exploits. I belong with Jace, we were brought into the world together and together we shall always be,” I said while trying to keep my voice steady as hers. Yet, when it came to the overwhelming truth of Aemond and I, I was never steady. And so I turned away from her, withdrawing my hands from her touch. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her stand.

“I only wish to see you happy, to marry for love and not for duty,” she told me, taking a flower from a vase nearby and sticking it in my hair. “Allow yourself to court both of them. There have been many changes during your time gone. When you have been made completely sure, I will not question your mind again.”

Before I could say anything in response, knock on the door echoed through the room. The Maesters were here to examine my injuries. Instinctually I turned to face mother, who silently promised me she was not leaving. With a deep and painful breath, I was able to nod and allow them inside.

[clockwayswrites]

Like Betta Fish Do Part 20

Chapter 15 when on Ao3, Masterpost WC: 3354 CW: Canon Typical Violence, Blood, Injury, arguing

There was so much blood already. Danny peeled off Jason’s— Red Hood’s— jacket looking for the wound.

If he had been quicker—

No, he couldn’t think that way.

He found the stab wound under Jason’s left arm, shoved right in a point where the armor was less reinforced. Danny pressed the palm of his hand tight to it and took a shuddering breath.

The pull had been so quiet. It had taken a moment to notice what had woken him from sleep and then another to realize what it was— that it was Jason’s core flickering to life and calling out. Not calling out, screaming.

Danny had transformed as he lept out of bed. Before he flew off, the case of ectoshot was hastily grabbed from the back corner of his closet. But Jason hadn’t been at his place. Danny had been forced to fly through the streets and alleyways to find him.

He hadn’t know what to expect as he stepped through the wall of the apartment.

His boyfriend bleeding out on the floor, dressed as Red Hood, wasn’t it.

Danny curled forward, resting his forehead against Jason’s. He was just so glad he got the ectoshot in him— that Nightwing, that Dick who was Nightwing, wasn’t able to stop him.

Even if Dick hated him now.

His fingers still twitched with the feeling of electricity running through him from the blow.

“Do you know how to do stitches?” Dick snapped as he came back with an armful of supplies.

“Yes.” On himself. He didn’t think Dick would want to hear that though (or anything Danny had to say).

Dick tossed the suture kit at Danny and got to work setting up an IV in Jason’s other arm. Silently, Danny cut away enough of Jason’s shirt to start cleaning the wound, keeping pressure on the spot itself as he first cleaned the area around.

“…how bad?” Dick asked, glancing over once he got something hooked up to the IV. Danny thought it might be saline, but he wasn’t sure. They never had that sort of stuff for him.

“It’s… deep, but the bleeding slowed with the pressure,” Danny said, mostly keeping his head down. It was different stitching someone else up. (How did Jazz do this? He owed her such a gift basket.)

Dick nodded and hooked Jason up to some sort of machine.

Danny focused on making all of his stitches neat. He didn’t want Jason to scar too badly. Fuck, he was stitching up his boyfriend. He hoped that Dick would let him stay until Jason woke up at least.

His hand shook. He had to take a moment to breathe to get them steady again.

He had almost lost Jason. Would he have even known? What cover story would Dick had given him, if he even thought to reach out? His boyfriend had been out there, fighting crime, with a developing core and had almost died for it. And this time there would have been no Clockwork to turn back time and let Danny save them. Not unless losing Jason was enough to—

No, nope, not thinking about Dan.

Danny was going to keep that dark spot inside him locked tight away.

It was all fine. Jason was alive. His fledgling core buzzed just on the edges of Danny’s senses. It hadn’t been snuffed out.

Danny tied off the stitches neatly and cut the thread.

-

Dick tucked Jason’s arm onto the couch as he settled him, careful not to jar the IV or the blood pressure monitor. Jason’s numbers were good. Jason’s numbers were better than they should be. That was… Dick was going to be grateful about that.

“Danny,” the other said suddenly.

“What? No, it’s—”

“No, my name, it’s Danny,” the Guy— Fish— Danny rasped from where he was slumped back against the wall. The guy, Danny, looked wrecked. There was a fevered panic to his eyes that Dick was sure he matched. A smear of blood was bright on his tanned cheek and his clothing (were those… pajamas?) were stained with it. “I figure… I figure you should get to know that, considering…”

“I guess… good to officially meet you or something. I’d shake your hand, but,” Dick looked down at his hands covered in his brother’s blood— just like Danny’s were.

“He’ll be alright.”

“You can’t know that,” Dick snapped. Things could always take a turn.

“I can. It’s why I needed to get him to drink that stuff.”

Anger flared in Dick’s gut at the reminder of Danny forcing Lazarus water down Jason’s throat. “Right. About that—”

“You can still punch me if you want to, I said you could,” Danny interrupted. “Just… not with the sticks again, please? I’ve— me and electricity have a bad history.”

He died.

Electrocution.

His heart stopped.

Dick felt sick. If— if Danny wasn’t a LOA plant, if he had told Jason the truth about his past, then Danny had been killed by electricity as a teen.

And Dick had hit him with his escrima while it was electrified.

Dick watched Danny’s fingers on his left arm twitch.

Forget him punching Danny, Jason was going to punch him.

“…go clean up first. You’re staying here? I mean, so you have extra clothing?” he asked, looking at the apparent pajamas (boxers and an old t-shirt) again.

“What?” Danny’s brows furrowed. “No?”

Okay then, another point to blind panic. “You… ran here in your boxers?”

“I, no? It’s… kinda? I didn’t run, but…” Danny trailed off.

Nothing was making sense.

One thing at a time.

“Go shower. There’s a draw labeled RR, the clothes in there should fit.”

With the wobble Danny gave as he stood, Dick was a little worried about him staying on his feet. Shock might be an issue. Dick should think about making tea.

Danny was watching him warily. “You’ll… you’ll let me stay then? At least until he wakes up?”

Dick got that sick feeling again.

“Yep. But go clean.”

Dick could take care of some of the blood on the floor while Danny did that. At least get it where they wouldn’t slip in it. He kept an ear on the sounds of the shower. It was seeming like Danny really cared about Jason, that the adoration he had seen in Danny’s eyes the other day wasn’t a lie, but the guy still had Lazarus water.

He couldn’t trust him completely.

The floors were clean enough by the time that Danny padded out of the bedroom in Tim’s sweats and a hoodie that that could only be Jason’s. He was completely drowning in it. Danny noticed Dick staring and picked nervously at the oversized piece.

“I just…”

“No. I get it. I’ll prob do the same,” Dick admitted, softly. “Can you put water on for tea?”

Danny nodded and padded around him with a wide berth. Dick’s stomach roiled again as he moved to the bedroom. Almost all the blood came off with his uniform, so he just quickly changed, washed his face (no point in the domino at this point) and hurried back out.

Danny was still in the tiny kitchen.

Dick took the time to strip Jason of the rest of his clothing but boxers. He had just covered him with a blanket when the kettle whistled. It must have startled Danny because there was a banging and then cursing.

The cursing had kept up as quite muttering that trailed off into a loud sigh just before Danny came out with two mugs of tea.

Dick took his gratefully and tucked himself onto the edge of the couch by Jason’s propped up feet. Danny settled for the armchair. Dick pushed his teabag around with the spoon, grounding himself in the warm metal handle. He wouldn’t drink it— it could be poisoned— but the warmth helped.

“I want answers.”

“I figured.” Danny was cradling his own mug, face twisted in a little frown. “There’s a lot I won’t give you until Jason is awake to agree. They’re his secrets too.”

“If he agrees?”

Danny rubbed at the back of his neck. “Then I’ll tell. I mean, you’re Nightwing and apparently I’m dating Red Hood. I figure you can keep secrets if you need to.”

Oh. “You didn’t know before tonight.”

“Nope. And what a way to find out,” Danny said with a hysterical sounding laugh that he clamped down fast with a hand over his mouth. Dick could see him take a few purposeful breaths through his nose. “Sorry.”

Dick gave a helpless little shrug. What did someone say to any of this? “It’s a lot. I get it.”

“Not really.” Danny gave him a mirthless smile back when Dick shot him an incredulous look. “I thought I would be done with the whole hero bullshit when I moved to Gotham.”

Oh.

“Retired small town hero at your service. I guess hero was dubious title depending on who you asked. Even in the end some of them preferred menace. I wasn’t… expecting to get caught back up in any of it. That wasn’t the plan.”

Dick glanced from Danny, who was practically hunched around himself now (and looking so tiny in Jason’s hoodie), and over to Jason.

“He knows,” Danny confirmed. “Not any details, just the basics, but he knows. And I… I didn’t know. Not about any of this.”

Fucking hell Jason… “He wouldn’t have told you because of us. Learn about one of us…”

“…and it gets to be pretty clear who everyone is?” Danny said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Who would have thought, Bruce Wayne is Batman, not his sugar daddy.”

Despite the tense air, Dick couldn’t help the snort of laughter. “That’s always one of our favorite ones. I guess this is you saying you’re not with the League of Assassins then?”

“The who?”

“The ones who have the Lazarus water.”

“Fuck no, can you imagine me as an assassin? Like, ignoring the whole killing part, I am… not subtle enough.” Danny finally took a drink of his tea. “And it’s not Lazarus water. They’re connected maybe, I think, but not the same thing at all. The Lazarus water is why my stuff can help Jason though. Which that is some of what I’m only explaining once Jason is awake.”

“Why do you have it?”

Danny shrugged, the movement too stiff to be carefree as Danny might be hoping. The question clearly bothered him. “Because it helps me too. Because I died too. Because I was revived too. Mine just happened pretty instantaneously. I haven’t… pried into the details, but I get the feeling Jason’s wasn’t.”

A shuddering breath ran through Dick and he tamped it down quickly, clearing his throat. “No. No it wasn’t. But same goes for me here, that’s not my story to tell for Jason.”

Danny gave an understanding little nod.

-

Jason’s everything hurt. Fuck why did his everything hurt?

“Hey, don’t try to move.”

“Dickie?” Jason rasped.

Right. Burning sensation, stabbed, called Dick.

“Yep, I’m here Jaybird. I got here in time. And… and so did Danny.”

“What?” Jason jolted up and then immediately regretted it as pain flared through his side.

Danny really was there, sitting in the ratty armchair, legs pulled up this chest, arms wrapped around them, and mug in hand. He looked so small— small and miserable.

“He was here to pour Lazarus water down your throat.”

Jason groaned and let his head fall back against the couch. “It’s not Lazarus water.”

“How do you know that?” Dick snapped.

Damn, Dick was upset. He was hard to deal with when he was upset. Dick was a real act first, smile after sorta guy.

“Because I’ve drank it before and it doesn’t rile up the Pits, Dickie. Does the opposite.”

“…what do you mean?”

“Means it calls them down. Not… it’s not a cure or anything, we don’t know if they’ll go away completely, but they’re less with the ectoshots.”

“And you know that for sure? You’ve done tests? Rounded up a bunch of Pit mad mice and ran tests?”

Jason only didn’t roll his eyes because of how badly his head hurt. “Yeah, sure, that’s exact what I did. What the fuck Dickie, no, I didn’t—”

“So you just took this shit on his,” Dick spit the work venomously, gesturing at Danny; Danny who flinched back, “word on this?”

“Back off, Dick, you don’t get it!”

“No, you don’t get it! You took this ectoshot without running any tests! Jason—”

“Yes, I did!” Jason shouted over Dick’s lecture. “I was tired, Dick. I was tired of being angry. I was tired of being scared of being angry— of what I would do! I was tired of hurting the people I love! I was tired… I was tired of you all flinching away from me when I spoke too loud or moved too quick.”

Jason slumped back down onto the couch, rubbing wearily at his face with his good arm. “I was tired. And you know if I had taken it to Bruce he would’ve wanted to run tests and trials and I wouldn’t have gotten to use it for months or even years and I didn’t— I don’t know if I had years, Dick, not with what’s left of my sanity intact. Not with… not with my family intact.”

“Jay—”

“And it would have made Danny have to expose himself to the Bats. That wasn’t fair, Dick. I couldn’t—”

Dick just sunk down next to the couch and wrapped his brother up in a hug. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. I was just scared too. I can’t lose you again. And never, never did I not touch you because I was afraid. I held back because I didn’t know if the touch was welcome. I didn’t want to hurt you and… and in doing that I hurt you.”

Jason dug his fingers into the hoodie Dick was wearing. His hoodie. “You’re a fucking clothing thief.”

“Danny started it,” Dick mumbled into Jason’s shoulder.

“Yeah, well, I think I deserve some comfort. I barged into my boyfriend bleeding out on the floor because, oh, he’s Red Hood,” Danny drawled. “And yeah, we’re talking about that later and how stupid of you it was to go out and fight crime while taking the shots!”

Jason winced. “I’m s—”

“No,” Danny said, cutting him off. “Not now. We are talking about it later. Right now I am pissed off and I hurt—”

“What? Why are you hurt?”

“That’s…” Danny started before he cut himself off with a frown and looked away.

Dick stiffened in Jason’s arms.

That wasn’t a good sign. “Dick… what did you do?”

“I came in and he was trying to poor Lazarus water down your throat!”

“It’s not Lazarus water.” Jason and Danny coursed at the same time.

“But I thought it was! And that he was trying to hurt you!”

“What did you do?” Jason growled, pushing Dick back enough to see his brother’s face.

Dick wouldn’t meet his eyes. “…I hit him with my escrima.”

“Your— were they electrified?”

“Yes.”

“You— And— After I told you that Danny had died from being electrocuted to death?!”

“Wait—” Danny cut in. Why did Danny sound upset— why had he gone ashen? “You told him I died— how I died?”

“I— yes?” Jason wanted to defend himself and he didn’t even know why. “That you were electrocuted in a lab accident and your heart stopped for a bit.”

Danny buried his face in his knees.

“Danny— I…” Jason was missing something. Something like… “Cultural differences?”

“Yeah.” Danny sounded slightly strangled. “Let’s go with that.”

“I thought he was trying to hurt you! I’m sorry!”

“He was just trying to protect his brother, Jason, I get that,” Danny said. He tilted his head up to rest it on his cheek on his knees. “I would kill for my sisters.”

Jason huffed, “I’m still—”

“You’re allowed to be,” Danny said.

“You can hit me if you want,” Dick offered.

“How about…,” Jason trailed off, utterly exhausted again. “How about you just get me some tea?”

“Herbal,” Dick said, standing, “Your blood vessels have been through enough without caffeine.”

Jason waited till his brother was in the kitchen to ask, quietly, “Are you really alright? If you’re not comfortable around Dick...”

“No. I mean, yes, I’ll be fine, just a little… twitchy. And no don’t ask Dick to— we’ll be fine. He had a reason. And I… um… he might be afraid of me too. I may have sunk him into the floor for it.”

“I— okay,” Jason said, having to take a moment with that. “Guess we’re explaining that.”

“Your lead.”

“Fish,” Jason almost pleaded. “You can’t want that. Not when I didn’t tell you—”

“I said later.”

Jason just nodded.

“You both can obviously keep secrets. I’ve… given things away, putting him in the floor. I told him I died and came back too- just not… how.”

“I’m sorry about telling him that— I didn’t think about it. It would have just been like saying I knew someone who drowned and had CRP.”

Danny sighed, just looking so tired. “If I asked you to tell me how you died?”

Jason recoiled at the thought.

“Exactly.” Danny’s smile was sad. “It’s okay. Thank you for saying sorry.”

Not knowing what else to do, but knowing what he needed, Jason held out his good arm, careful of the IV line. Danny uncurled, setting his mug aside, and took the offer. Jason felt something in him settle at having Danny tucked against him.

“What does it feel like?” Danny asked softly.

“Hum?”

Gently, Danny pressed his hand to Jason’s chest. “Your core.”

“Is that—? Burning. It feels like burning. I… that’s not right, exactly. It feels like molten heat.”

Danny hummed and learned over to press a kiss to that spot on Jason’s chest before resettling.

Dick— timing as impeccable as always— came out when Danny was breathing easily again. He handed over the tea in a to-go mug so Jason didn’t have to lean up much to sip at it and settled in the vacated armchair.

“So…,” Jason started eventually. He rubbed his hand up and down Danny’s back. “Like I said and maybe shouldn’t have, Danny died, briefly, in his parents lab. Electrocuted by one of their machines. He came back different because of that machine.”

Dick was quiet for a moment before asking, “Meta?”

“Close enough,” Jason said. “A lot of it the ecto— something his parents were studying as… paranormal scientists.”

“…okay.”

Danny laughed (the sound a little hysterical). “Right? Dead juice does a lot for you if you’ve died.”

“And it must have done a lot for me,” Jason said, before they could get much more into Danny’s situation. “Something in that graveyard brought me back before the Al Ghuls. Whatever the Lazarus water is— and it might be some of the same stuff to start— it’s gone wrong. The ecto Danny’s parents, and now Danny, extracts is pure. It’s basically like a transfusion for me.”

“Okay, right, sure, healthy dead juice,” Dick said, running a hand through his hair. “Are you going to… will you get powers too?”

“Maybe,” Jason said, trying to sound casual. “Or maybe I’m too fucked up from the Pits. But it’s helping Dick, it really is.”

“I do have research on this. I didn’t just give Jason something I knew nothing about,” Danny said. “And I drink it myself if I’m hurt or ill.”

“Like when you were a hero?” Dick asked, following it up with a full body sigh as he just sunk into the armchair.

“You told him?” Jason was surprised.

Danny shrugged in Jason’s arms. “It seemed the only way to explain why I reacted the way I did to the thing we’re not talking about yet.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jason said, kissing the top of Danny’s head. He wouldn’t press tonight. He was in no state for it anyways.

He just hoped that conversation would go well.

He just hoped he wouldn’t lose Danny.

-----

AN: So no one is really happy in this part- but at least they're talking? And they'll have to talk more too. There's also a lot of trying (and failing) not to panic by all the boys. But hopefully this settled a lot for you all!

Sorry if there's more mistakes than normal (don't need them pointed out, they'll be caught in the rewrite and beta) but my hands and my brain have both been really rebelling against me. Proverbial fingers crossed for the new meds I started today to do some good!

(It might be a few weeks before the next part, btw, looking at my progress.)

Due to the new post editor and having been shadow banned, I'm no longer tagging people! You can subscribe here to be notified instead like you would with a tag!

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 45

Part 1 Part 44

Steve stays seated on the coffee table, long after Jonathan and Will have left. The entirety of his old life is bagged up next to him. Three small bags. That’s the total sum of Steve Harrington’s life.

He sits in the Munson’s trailer, unmoored.

But then there’s Eddie. Always, eternally Eddie who picks up Steve’s filled duffel bag and marches into his room. A man on a mission. Just like he always will, Steve follows him.

Eddie’s dresser is open, shirts haphazardly thrown on the ground in a mound.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks, hand trailing along the molding of the doorway. The grooves are rough, catching on his calluses.

“Putting your stuff away.”

Eddie folds Steve’s shirts nicely, almost tenderly placing them in a neat pile beside his own. A riot of colors  joining the faded blacks and reds and whites  of Eddie’s own clothes. Something about the sight makes Steve feel unendingly tender. It almost hurts, the way his heart pulses.

“You don’t have to–” 

“Steve?” Eddie interrupts, not turning away from his chosen task.

“Shut up, and go get the rest of your stuff.”

Steve clenches his hand, feels a sliver embed itself into his pointer finger. He pulls it out with the fingernails of his opposite hand, staring at Eddie’s back like he’ll be able to peer through his skins into the machinations underneath. Maybe the breadth of the spaces between each rib will tell him how he got this lucky. Steve goes.

The teddy bear looks sad, abandoned on the coffee table. It’s comfortable in his arms. He picks his heavy backpack up and goes back in the room. Eddie’s in the process of kicking his abandoned shirts into the corner of the room. He smiles sheepishly when Steve walks in.

“I can go home,” Steve says, clutching the teddy bear to his chest. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. He stops trying to neaten his shirts without bending over to stalk over to Steve and wrench his backpack (carefully) off his shoulder. “You’re literally impossible,” he says, placing the backpack down on the ground next to his own. 

“I’m just saying,” Steve says, rolling his own eyes in return, putting on a little show to match Eddie’s own. “I’m not sure your room’s big enough.”

Eddie goes back over to Steve, clasps his hand gently in his own, and brings it up to his lips like the don from a mafia movie. He looks into Steve’s eyes, and up close, he can see little flecks of gold. “I’m going to kill you.” Eddie says. Softly, gently. Steve would let him.

Instead, he leads Steve by hand over to the bed, and pushes him down, teddy bear and all. “I’m just saying–” Steve says halfheartedly, shuffling backward to settle his back against the wall, Eddie’s pillows wedged between the mattress and the wall. 

“Well stop,” Eddie says, sitting down beside him. “Do you want to go home?” He asks it like he knows the answer – less question and more leading Steve to the answer they both already know.

Eddie leans his head on Steve’s good shoulder, petting Teddy’s soft fur. Steve lets him, clutches the bear tightly as he says a quiet, “no.”

“Great!” Eddie says brightly, swaying his weight further into Steve’s space, “Because there’s no way in hell I can sleep on my own right now, dude. I’d be crawling through your window at two a.m. either way.”

Steve chuckles, unsurprised when it comes out a little wet. Luckily, no tears fall. That might be a step too far. “I’m making dinner.”

“Oooooh!” Eddie says, bouncing up from the bed and dancing around the room. “What’re we having?”

Steve watches him fondly before standing up. He puts Teddy down gently at the top of Eddie’s bed. He looks cozy on Eddie’s worn bedding. At home. Steve trails his fingers over the top of his head, just once, before wandering back into the matchbox living room and into the kitchen. He opens cupboards at random, perusing the ingredients with prejudice.

“Spaghetti,” he declares, fishing noodles, sauce, and meat out of their respective cubbies. “Will Uncle Wayne be here?”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away, so Steve turns, eyebrows raised. Eddie’s smiling at him, strange and fond, like Steve’s his favorite pet and he just did a really neat trick. “Yeah, Uncle Wayne should be back soon,” he says, emphasizing the word uncle strangely.

Steve squints at him before deciding it’s none of his business and getting back to work. It’s a trial working in such a small, unfamiliar kitchen, mostly after Eddie jumps up to sit on the counter, taking up a large portion of the available space to work with. 

Instead of shoving Eddie off the counter so he’d have the space to shape the meatballs, Steve roughly browns the hamburger in a frying pan, adding the canned marinara sauce while the noodles boil.

“Can you make some toast?” Steve asks, using a spatula to keep the hamburger from settling and sticking to the bottom.

“Do I have to do everything around here?” Eddie asks playfully. The kitchen is so small, he doesn’t even bother getting up, just reaches behind him, leaning to one side to give the cupboard he’s blocking enough room to open. He grabs the slightly-squashed wonder bread, slides it out of its plastic wrap, and leans the other direction to slide three slices into the toaster.

“What’re you gonna do for the butter, wise-ass?” Steve asks, unfortunately charmed.

“Well,” Eddie says, drawing out the vowels in a long drawl, “isn’t there a big strong man who could get it for me?” 

When Steve looks away from the simmering sauce to look over at him,, Eddie’s fluttering his eyelashes cartoonishly. Unfortunately for Steve, it makes his fucking heart flutter weirdly. He sighs, a put-upon sense of put-uponness on show, but still goes to retrieve the margarine and a butter knife and a plate for Eddie to put the toast on.

“My hero!” Eddie says.

They finish preparations in silence. Steve tells himself that it’s the heat from the stovetop that makes his cheeks flush.

Uncle Wayne walks through the door just as Eddie’s putting the last plate on the small table. “Dinner!”Eddie singsongs. 

After grunting in affirmation, Uncle Wayne shambles over to the couch, and plops down with a groan to untie his laces. “Smells good, boys,” he says gruffly.

Eddie preens under the attention. It’s a trial for Steve to keep his own mouth from curling up, but he thinks he manages. They all sit around the table, plates full. Forks scrape appreciatively across plastic plates. The spaghetti sauce tastes of canned metal, Eddie had managed to burn the toast. It’s still one of the best meals Steve’s ever partaken in.

“How was school?” Uncle Wayne asks, eyes shifting between the pair of them, implicitly including Steve in the question.

“Stevie sat with me at lunch,” Eddie says enthusiastically, like an enthusiastic child with a new toy. 

“Your funeral,” Uncle Wayne says, not looking up from his meal, even as Eddie interjects with a heated, “hey!” “What about you?”

Steve doesn’t realize he’s asking him until he looks up from his toast and meets Uncle Wayne’s eyes. “Oh!” he says, startled. “Uh, it was fine.”

Uncle Wayne grunts, squinting at him the same way Eddie does – like he wants to peel back his skin and look inside. But he doesn’t push.

Dinner is a quiet affair after that, with only a little kerfuffle over who would wash the dishes. Uncle Wayne won, victory assured when Eddie took his side. Apparently the cook doesn’t do the dishes.

In Steve’s experience, he does both. But this is different. There are three people to lighten the load.

When Steve and Eddie crawl into bed that night, backs pressed together in the small space of Eddie’s mattress, Steve can’t help but ask, “do you really think it could be something good?”

Neither of them have to ask what he’s referring to. They can both feel it, tying them together and reaching across miles to where Will Byers is asleep in a bed of his own.

Steve can feel the depth of the breath Eddie takes in the way his ribs move against his back. His answer is even quieter than the question Steve asked. “No.”

His own breath shutters out of him, shaky. Eddie presses back into him, harder. “We can figure it out,” Steve says, not sure if he means it.

“Yeah,” Eddie replies. “Together.”

Even still, as Steve drifts off that night, Eddie’s back a warm line against his own, he wonders if this is what having a family is like.

Part 46

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @1-8oo-wtfbro @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso  

[imthepunchlord]

What's your thoughts about the unifications?

Conceptually, unification works. Honestly, I think it makes sense being able to dual wield Miraculous. Especially working off positive and negative energy/yin-yang.

It works off that theme of balance, having two different energies being able to work together.

But, much like anything in canon, I feel the concept could've gone farther.

Like, I think it'd be neat that unification could lead to animals that don't exist as Miraculous:

Ladybug + any feline creates a Leopard themed hero.

Any bug + any reptile creates a Dragonfly themed hero.

Any reptile + any bird creates a Dragon themed hero.

Any cat + any bird creates a Griffin themed hero.

Horse + Fish could've made a Seahorse themed hero.

Cat + Goat could've made a Chimera themed hero.

Not that they really went that way and just went weird with the naming, combing the names of preexisting heroes instead of letting characters name themselves and working off their own unique personalities. Like, instead of Pegabug, I could've seen Marinette calling herself Appaloosa or if you want to go punny, Appleloosa.

I also think that dual wielding Miraculous shouldn't be that difficult, as pairs are something that always exist, and I can see the body handling matching with two different types of magical energy. Now, wielding more than 2 I can see being set up to take a toll on the body as there's more magical energy to work off of, and the higher you go the more tired you're going to be.

Though I could just be biased as I feel the temporary heroes weren't necessary and Marinette and Adrien could've juts unified with the rest and continue to handle things; I also feel that, post meeting Fu and him able to see that they were trustworthy and dedicated and were able to succeed despite HM having the being an adult edge, they should've gotten a 2nd Miraculous to have full time, not only to help give them a boost, but also allow continued growth.

Ladybug/Tikki did help with Marinette's growth in confidence and being a leader, but there's nothing else TIkki is adding to her growth (which I find it's kinda debatable how much Tikki really added to Marinette's over all growth), but at this time, Ladybug and Tikki just work off this is a responsibility than something for Marinette to grow as a character. And now she's developing an Atlas complex and that anxiety is getting worse with the pressure and expectation of the role and no one there telling Marinette she needs to prioritize and value her own needs and wants. I don't even know if this girl knows how to relax at this point. And that there is the next phase for Marinette's growth. She needs to learn to put down boundaries, to say no, to not involve herself as much, and think about her own needs and wants, cause you can't really help others until you help yourself.

Cat/Plagg was good for Adrien to gain that independence he wants, be more rebellious against his father, and to self-prioritize. But now he prioritizes his wants way too much, doesn't really treat heroing with the seriousness required nor has he stepped up as a leader and equal to Ladybug, and still readily endangers himself, to the point of self-sacrificing. And that's the next phase for his growth, get a Miraculous and kwami that will address those, learn to be more serious in fights, not to say he can no longer be a wisecrack but save the flirting and pranks for night patrols not akuma fights, step up as a leader and truly share that burden, which would've helped his partner rely on him more and trust his capability more, and address that self-sacrificing. Either learn to be more cautious or think a little bit more before acting. Like, great, you saved your partner by sacrificing yourself, but you also left her alone to deal with things, and what if the fight went poorly because she was alone, and she fails, and that sacrifice was pointless. I don't know how many more times he did so, but man it needed to be addressed.

Another factor is that unification could've been extra interesting in that combing Miraculous could've created new powers through the combination of preexisting powers.

Like Shelter + Venom could've created Shell Shock, where hitting the shield would shock and stun a target.

Shelter + Cataclysm or Clout could've made Bombshell, put up a protective dome and it sends out a destructive blast or shock wave around you.

Mirage + Cataclysm could've made Nightmare, where the illusion creates someone's worst fears.

Second Chance + Cataclysm could've made Hissterics, getting a target to live in the worst timeline.

Time travel could've existed as a unification power through combining Horse and Snake/Rabbit, if the latter still has a time power.

Though neat an idea it is, it is something that would work better with fewer Miraculous, as 19 that canon has is a lot of powers to think of possibly combining. That is 361 matches to think about and how they make a new power. And now that I got 35 I won't be doing the concept either, even more so as I'm going with Miraculous having 2 powers to offer.

So unification is a neat concept, but I think it could've gone further if they were more creative. Definitely prefer it to the potions.

[goatcheesecak3]

Please write a "meet the parents" situation for rodrick officially meeting his partner's parents, I live for him actually trying so he could make a good impression >_<

#

Hello! Sorry this took a few days, but here it is!

Rodrick fished around in his drawer, desperately in search of his church clothes, the only things he had that weren't band shirts and skinny jeans. Tonight was a huge deal. He was finally going to meet y/n's parents. A formal dinner wasn't exactly in his comfort zone, but he was confident that he'd mage a good impression. He'd had a week to plan, he'd even swallowed his pride and asked his mother for help with conversational tips and how to impress parents. So, with a neatly pressed shirt on and a pair of smart looking shoes he'd borrowed from his father, he set out in his van to y/n's house. Although, he had one very important stop to make on the way. He made a small detour to a shop where he purchased some flowers and a bottle of wine - a nice bottle, a fairly pricey cabernet sauvignon - not the cheap stuff he usually got for himself. He knew middle aged people were always impressed when a young person turned up with a gift.

He parked just round the corner from y/n's house, unsure as to what her parents would make of the beat up white van with "löded diper" crudely spray painted on the side that he would often chauffeur their daughter around in. Walking up to the house he revised the tips his mother had given him. Be polite, smile, offer to help. Piece of cake.

He straightened himself up, and rang the bell. A woman in a neat blouse answered with a welcoming smile,

"You must be the famous Rodrick, come on in, I'm y/n's mother, (your mum's name)"

"Hi, it's lovely to finally meet you. I hope you like cab sauv and peonies," he smiled, handing y/n's mother the gifts.

"Well aren't you just a dear"

She escorted him to the dining room (before disappearing into the kitchen) where y/n greeted him with a smile.

"The wine was a nice touch" she winked at him, before giving him a brief kiss on the cheek.

"If I'm being completely honest, I'm absolutely terrified for tonight" he whispered, "I really hope they like me"

"You've got nothing to worry about baby, trust me, they'll love you"

At that moment, y/n's father emerged from the kitchen, he smiled reassuringly at Rodrick

"You certainly know the way to a middle aged woman's heart, lad" he chuckled, placing a firm hand on Rodrick's shoulder.

Rodrick was perplexed, which y/n picked up on

"He means you impressed mum" she giggled.

Rodrick breathed a sigh of relief

"Relax, boy! You don't need to be so nervous, we don't bite" y/n's dad said.

This certainly was going better than expected - almost too much better. Rodrick figured that y/n must have buttered up her parents real good, maybe even embellished some of his better qualities a bit, but that only added pressure. He was so sure that if they knew what he was really like they'd never approve of him, and how on earth could he live up to the perfect gentleman that her parents so clearly thought he was? He was left with only one option: to fake it. It was a foolproof plan, in front of y/n's parents he would no longer be Rodrick, drummer and founder of löded diper, he would be Rodrick, the academically talented, responsible young man.

"Do you need help setting the table?" He asked politely

"Haven't you got him well trained," y/n's dad joked to her, "it's alright son, just take your seat, me and the Mrs will sort that out"

The table was laid, the food placed neatly in front of the four, and Rodrick's wine had been poured into glasses for everyone. Rodrick made sure to compliment the food, and take small delicate bites, rather than scarfing it down like he did at home.

"So Rodrick, tell us how you and y/n met," y/n's mum enquired.

Rodrick's heart began to race. He couldn't possibly tell them that they met at a basement punk show where his band was performing, that wouldn't be very responsible-young-man of him. No problem, he had the perfect lie.

"We met in the... library, yeah that's right, the library. Can't get enough of that place with all it's uh.... books and... stuff"

Y/n shot him a confused look, but didn't say anything.

"Oh, well that's nice" y/n's mum said, but something was off. Did she not believe him? Was that not impressive enough? He had to step up his game.

"Yeah, it's really nice. You know, that's just the sort of thing me and y/n like to get up to together, studying, reading the classics and not staying out later than 8:30. Isn't that right y/n?" He said, stumbling over his words as he did.

Y/n's brow furrowed as she uttered a less than confident "Uhuh..."

"Right then," her dad said, feigning politeness.

It was no use. No matter what he did, Rodrick couldn't hide the fact that he was never going to be the type of guy parents like. He couldn't even fake it. He was more than embarrassed, he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Looking down, desperately trying to hide his red cheeks, he mumbled some excuse about needing to check if he'd locked his van, then he legged it out the door, leaving a very confused y/n and her parents. He just had to get out of there.

"Y/n, sweetheart," y/n's dad said, "what in the fresh hell just happened?"

"I'm wondering that too," she replied, standing up from the table and heading to the front door, "I'll be right back".

She jogged down the road, where she found Rodrick sat on the floor leaning on his van, his face firmly planted in his palm muttering "you idiot" to himself.

"Uhhhh.. Rodrick? You wanna tell me what that was back there?" She asked, startling him slightly.

"I'm sorry, y/n, I really tried. I'm just not the sort of guy you bring home to your parents. They saw right through me." His gaze directed strictly towards the ground, he was far too humiliated to look at her.

"Yeah, no shit they saw through it Rodrick, I've told them all about you. They know you're not some goody two shoes bookworm"

"They do?" He lifted his head up slightly

"Of course they do," y/n said, sitting down next to him and taking one of his hands.

"They know all about the band, the fact that you hate studying, they even know that you taught me how to shotgun a beer"

"Wh... what?!" Rodrick spluttered, genuinely surprised, "why the hell did they even let me in their house?"

Y/n threw her head back laughing.

"Babe, my dad was in a punk band when he was our age, that's how he and my mum met. They like the fact that I'm not so uptight since meeting you, they say we remind them of themselves when they were younger"

"Wait... really?"

"Really, doofus" y/n smiled, giving Rodrick a playful jab in the arm.

Rodrick smiled, and planted a small peck on her cheek.

"I guess we better go back in and try again huh?" Y/n said, helping Rodrick to his feet

"Lead the way babe".

Upon returning to the dining table, Rodrick composed himself, let out a deep breath and finally spoke.

"I'm sorry about before, I'm not a book guy, I'm the drummer in a punk band called löded diper, the last book I read the whole way through was a beano comic, and I feel naked without eyeliner. So, that's it. That's the truth,"

Y/n's parents were silent for a second, before erupting into laughter.

"Well why didn't you say so!" Y/ns dad said, "Come on son, sit. Tell me about this band of yours..."

The rest of the evening flew by, y/n's parents reminiscing on anecdotes from their youth, while indulging in y/n and Rodricks more recent stories. It would appear that Rodrick couldn't have been more wrong, he was exactly the type of guy a girl brings home to her parents.

A/n hope you enjoyed :^) requests for fics / hcs are still open (sfw only)

[shadyufo]

Here are a few recent creek finds!

A hand from an old bisque porcelain doll, a gorgeous crinoid calyx (that flower-like fossil with a hole in the middle towards the lower left), a nice chunky cow tooth, a big old Boy Howdy fishing lure that lost its head and hooks, lots of lovely hag stones, some really nice fossils, and loads of pretty bits of tumbled glass and pottery.

I thought this little pottery sherd had a lion on it when I first found it but after looking at it a bit closer I realized it was a unicorn!

I did a little research and tracked down what it most likely came from. It looks like a good match for a piece of James Edwards & Son stone china from the mid 1800s. They had very similar maker's marks on them — here's one of the examples I found. Super neat little find! I wish he still had his head but headless unicorns are still cool too <3

[budgie2budgie]

tagged by @theosconfessions & @simmenycricket, thanks guys! ❤️

oc deep dive with samson grey

What uncommon/common fear do they have? deep waters! even tho he love fishing, swimming and take (skinny) dips, he find really big deep waters scary. sinken ships? brrrrrr! i don't see him taking diving lessons any day soon.

Do they have any pet peeves? sims that interrupt other sims while they are talking and when he was living in big cities: traffic jams! never happens in moonwood! lol

What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom? a lot of books, a cap collection and condoms 😏

What do they notice first in a person? their posture, it can tell a lot about a sim, but also eyes and hair. (especially brunettes)

On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance? 7-8? he pretty much get bruised every day from work

Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure? fight!

Do they come from a big family/are they a family person? he's not from a big family, he's the only child BUT def. a family sim and he wants one of his own

What animal represents them best? dah! everyone in moonwood mills is a wolf! ;)

What is a smell that they dislike? strong perfumes, they make him sneeze

Have they broken any bones? 1. nose (rugby) 2. second toe, left foot (heavy plank falling down on him at age 16)

How would a stranger likely describe them? friendly, calm, reserved

Are they a night owl or a morning bird? morning! (and early sleeper)

What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love? not a fan of bananas, too sweet and mushy. as the manly man he is, (HA!) he love heat, all kind of strong chili! (he enjoy watching hot ones on simtube, and would secretly want to try all the wings himself)

Do they have any hobbies? running, fishing, like outdoorsy stuff, reading

Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises? he would be a good sport but he doesn't like being in the centre of attention

Do they like to wear jewelry? not really, he has a couple of necklaces, but wouldn't mind a ring 🙃

Do they have neat or messy handwriting?

What are two emotions they feel the most? restless >< calm

Do they have a favorite fabric? denim

What kind of accent do they have? moonwoodish

let's do this @zosa95 @jayveesim @deardiaryts4 @nilonne & @sirianasims (no pressure ;))

[namu-the-orca]

Arctic Odontocetes

And here's the three other Icelandic whales poster illustrations. All true Arctic species, roaming the frigid water of the high north. While Atlantic white-sided dolphins can occasionally be spotted along European shores, Narwhal and Belugas roam the true ice seas.

Narwhals are famous for their rather striking dentition: the huge, up to 3 meter long tusk, is hard to miss. It's actually their left canine tooth - every once in a while the right canine erupts too, making for a double-tusker. It's usually only males who are so adorned, as only a very small number of females (15%) bear tusks.

The exact function of the tusk is still debated: originally thought to be a simple weapon, now it is mostly thought to serve as a secondary sexual characteristic, inducing status in the bearer. The bigger the tooth, the sexier the man. However, researchers suspect they may have many more functions. Through the tusk run thousands of nerves which enable Narwhals to sense differences in water temperature and salinity. On top of that tusks have been observed to aid hunting and social interactions between males, and perhaps more. And the occasional Narwhal has been found with a broken tusk embedded in their cheek. So perhaps some good ole fashioned fighting happens after all, though no one has ever observed it happening.

The tuskless females survive just fine without them though and often live to be even older than males (up to 115 years!), so the advantages can't be that critical. Nevertheless it's fascinating to think about. Somewhere out there in the ice cold seas where we would freeze to death in an instant, swim whales - fellow mammals - sensing the waters with their 3 meter long canine tooth, occasionally slapping a fish unconscious. A wholly alien experience lived by an animal not so essentially different from us.

Atlantic white-sided dolphins may be far less mysterious, but nevertheless amongst my favourite delphinids. They've such beautiful markings. And the beluga... no doubt well known too as living marshmallows. I must say that youtube videos of their melons and fatty flabs being wobbled is great watching material.

Also - the "Whales of Iceland" poster is officially up for sale! You can nab one at Pappyr's website here. Not sponsored or anything, I just think the poster turned out super neat.