#sometimes getting stabbed makes him grumpy

[justporo]

Headcanons about Astarion pulling his partner out of a bad mood

I'm not feeling super great today so this is another very self indulgent headcanon post which is possibly a little unhinged but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

Astarion himself is no stranger to feeling whimsical or even throwing full blown temper tantrums; that's also why he knows how much of a drag it can be

So granted he isn't in a massively bad mood himself, he'll keep nudging you until you are out of your current bad mood

If you're both annoyed at each other though (like after an unnecessary fight) it might be that you're both sitting around brooding - that is until you can't take it anymore; Astarion might act like he's still pissed, but when you come closer (still with a pout even) and wrap your arms around him, he can't resist (even though he will make a show out of it): "Do you mind? I'm still brooding!", Astarion says but lifts up his arms crossed over his chest so you can hug him better. "Still love you though, you rat arse", you reply furrowing your brows dramatically, you don't even feel that angry anymore. "Love you too, you idiot", Astarion answers and presses a kiss to your cheek - with a teasing eyeroll and grimace. Not shortly after the mood's a lot better, the fight forgotten.

This man shows as much mercy with you when you're feeling down and grumpy as on the battlefield: none!

"I like you in bed, my love. No - in fact: I love you in bed. But not like this - get up, my sweet, you can dissolve into a puddle of misery later when I'm done with you."

He will absolutely fuss if you don't go along with what he's doing to lighten your mood; and he will keep doing it until you're either punching him or are rolling on the floor laughing

This might involve the following: "Do you know what you look like right now, my heart?", Astarion asks and then makes the most excessive grimace. You're still scowling at him. "Love" he sighs then "furrowing your brows at me will just give you wrinkles. We don't want that, do we?" And he pinches your cheek with his long fingers until you're getting up to beat his ass. "See, wasn't it easy getting out of bed after all?" "You'd also be astonished how easy it is to be put IN A COMA!" (But you have to agree with him)

He will also shower you with praise, no matter what about, until you believe him (at least for the moment)

Or he'll be so disarmingly cute until you can't help but fall into his open arms for a comforting hug

If really nothing helps, Astarion just stays with you

Maybe just talking to you so you have something to focus on, massaging your shoulders, your neck, your hands

Or just cuddling with you, holding you, until his presence alone eases the knot of negative feelings in your chest (and then maybe nibbling a bit on your ear when he feels that you're doing better)

He's also masterful in just helping you let out any anger you might feel ("That BITCH!" "Yes love, how could she!? Honestly you should've just stabbed her right then and there." "RIGHT!?")

Other ways of coping might involve a bottle of wine and him handing you some stuff you can smash angrily ("You really showed that mug, love, impressive... Remind me to net get on your bad side, darling.")

In short: Astarion is as good with putting you in a bad mood sometimes as getting you out of it

I just need Astarion to tell me "Keep going, you beautiful thing" every day for the rest of my life, is that too much to ask?? We love a supportive king.

Tag list: @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess @azukiel

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #fanfiction #astarion x tav #baldur's gate iii #bg3 spoilers #baldurs gate #astarion x mc #astarion x oc #astarion #astarion x reader #poro headcanons #headcanons #astarion x you #bg3

[dix0nspretty]

Knives, Bikes, and Stitches, Oh My!

Summary: Daryl is working on his motorcycle and you watch. Too bad you can't keep your focus.

Daryl Dixon x F!Reader, 1.3k words

Era: Prison (again) because he's just so yummy...

TW: Mention of blood and stitches. Maybe chronic horniness?

Y'all loved my first story and I hope this one whets your appetites just as well! I have no idea how motorcycles or vehicles of literally any kind work, so please feel free to educate me in the comments.

You put the fear of God in Daryl every time he sees you with a knife.

It’s not that you can’t use one. On the contrary, you’re a force to be reckoned with when you’re fighting. Sometimes all that can be seen of you in a fight is the shine of blood-tinged metal as you slash and stab at whatever is attacking with your twin blades. No, your knives are comfortable and at home in your grip. Maybe too comfortable.

“How many times I got to tell ya to stop eatin’ off yer damn knife?” Daryl’s rough accent sounds out in the empty courtyard. His head is bowed low as he works on his bike, not looking up as he speaks.

I’m perched on the tabletop of one of the prison’s picnic tables eating a can of peaches. Daryl, for some reason unknown to me, had elected to start taking his bike apart and putting it back together and I followed along to watch the process. I don’t know shit about vehicles, much less motorcycles, but I like spending time with the grumpy man.

“It’s fine, I’m not gonna cut myself.” I tell him as I tilt my head down to drag a slice of peach off the blade. Daryl’s eyes don’t move from the work in front of him, but I can feel him watching me. I pull the chunk into my mouth and lick the blade clean of the sticky juice.

“Told ya to cut it out.” I’m eating the canned fruit haphazardly, not paying any attention to how close I am to the edge. Daryl shakes his head. He knows it’s a matter of time before I cut my lip or tongue.

At his repeated command, I roll my eyes but pull away from the edge of my knife. I set the can of peaches down and watch him. His brown hair is getting longer now and it’s sliding down into his eyes, shielding most of his face from my watchful gaze.

“What are you doing, anyways?” I ask. I scoot myself closer to the edge of the table and peer down over his shoulder. He has one of his tools in his hand and some pieces of metal I can’t identify. It is roughly the size of my fist and cylindrical. Whatever it is, it looks important.

Daryl glances over his shoulder, feeling my curious eyes looking down. He huffs and continues his task. “Workin’.”

“No shit. Working on what?” I’m playing with my knife in my fingers, absentmindedly twisting and flipping it. Daryl looks up at me through his hair, squinting one eye against the sunlight. My breath catches in my throat, and I try to play it cool.

“Do ya really want to know or are ya jus’ bored?” He asks in his gruff voice. I don’t answer for a second. He looks so pretty. Get a grip, Y/N, I think to myself.

“Really want to know. Come on, I don’t know anything about bikes. Teach me something.” Daryl squints at me for several seconds longer and I’m convinced he’s going to send me inside to bother someone else, but he slowly starts talking.

“’M cleanin’ the carburetor.” He tilts his hand up to show me the same piece I was looking at earlier. “It’s startin’ to get clogged.”

“Oooookay. What’s that do?”

“It keeps the engine runnin’ smooth, basically. Don’t keep it clear and that can fuck up the bike, make it stall or overheat. Gotta take it apart and clean it every few months.”

Daryl lets me watch over his shoulder as he points out different parts of the carburetor and how to clean them. After a few minutes, his gruff voice starts to fade out and my mind begins to wander.

He just looks so good. His hands are greasy and dirty from all of his work today and his biceps are sweaty from the Georgia heat. He’s wearing one of his simple black shirts that already fit him so well and the sweat is only making him look more delicious. I’m watching his hands work over the small brass jets when I feel burning heat in my palm and look down.

I’d been messing with my knife the entire time and cut myself. I instinctively let go of the blade and it hits the concrete with a harsh clang. Daryl’s head lifts at the noise and he spins around right as I rush to tuck both hands behind my back. I look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar and I’m trying to hide the chocolatey evidence. Except this time, it’s blood.

Daryl’s eyes run over me for a second, then flick down to my knife as it sits on the dirty floor. He slowly bends down and picks it up. “Y/N.” He starts, a low warning in his tone.

“It’s fine! I’m fine, I just dropped it.” My voice rambles out. There’s a high, nervous note to it and I’m hoping to God he doesn’t notice.

He raises an eyebrow. “If yer fine, why’s the knife got fresh blood on it?” Fuck.

“Uhhhhh.” I look around the courtyard, trying to find an excuse. I, naturally, see nothing. “Magic?”

Daryl huffs and crosses his arms. “Let me see your hands.”

I wince. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I can feel the blood dripping off my hand, and it stings. The longer I hold off showing him the angrier he’ll get.

“Y/N. Hand, now.” Daryl’s voice leaves no room for arguments.

“Jus’, don’t be mad?” I ask. He says nothing and I sigh, then slowly move my hands back in front of me. The blood is quickly evident on my skin.

“God damn it, girl. Why can’t ya ever listen to me?” Despite his rough tone, his hands are gentle as he takes my wrist and tilts my hand, inspecting the damage. I risk a glance at my hand. There’s a slash across my entire palm and more blood than there should be. It’s going to need stitches.

“Ya need stitches.” Told you.

 Daryl looks up from my hand but doesn’t let go of my wrist. His eyes lock with mine and he gives me a warm look. There’s exasperation and concern and I don’t know what to do with it. He takes a surprisingly clean rag from his pocket and ties it around my bleeding palm, firmly but not enough to hurt.

I can’t help but be surprised by just how gentle he’s being with me. I was expecting a pop in the side of the head and a banishment to Hershel’s cell. I look up at him through my lashes, waiting for my verbal lashing. After almost a minute, I realize there is none.

“Does this mean I gotta go in now?” I try to keep the potential disappointment from my voice and don’t entirely succeed.

“Yeah, yer going to go get those stitches. Ya weren’t listenin’ anyways.” He grumbles at me. “The hell were you doin’?”

I look away from him. I do not want to explain that I was too busy being horny over him to notice that I gouged my palm open. I risk a glance at him and I’m caught by those ocean-blue eyes.

“I was watching your hands…”

Daryl pauses, then snorts. “Maybe instead of watchin’ my hands ya should’ve been watching yours. Go get your damn stitches and I’ll show ya somethin’ else.”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl fanfiction #the walking dead #twd #twd daryl #walking dead #twd fic #twd fanfiction #twd x reader #norman reedus #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #daryl x you #daryl x female reader

[melminli]

Devil's Advocate II

pairing: hazbin hotel x fem. reader

summery - after you died, you didn't really find it surprising to end up in hell. though, what you did find quiet amusing was that your life down here sucked just a bit less than the one before.

word count: 1.5k

contains: cursing, strong language, sinner reader, violence, religious themes (obviously), sexual themes, demon horniness

part I

"So...ya and that pretty lady over there seemed to be pretty tight, if ya know what I mean." Angel Dust asked curiously, ready to hear some tea. He grinned as he tilted his head to the side flirtatiously. "She some ex of yours, or somethin' like that?"

Husker just looked at him with his usual grim look while he was cleaning a few glasses. Then his gaze briefly wandered away to your figure, who was forced to deal with the Radio Demon and the Princess of Hell. Yeah, you haven't really been successful in getting out of this hotel yet.

"None of your business." He said with his monotone voice and let Angel hang his head in disappointment. "...I'm far too sober for this shit."

A groan could be heard. "Oh, come on, ya grumpy cat! Don't leave me high and dry, I know there's some good story to be heard!"

Before Husker could leave him hanging one more time, a red demon manifested next to them, much to their surprise. "I would also like to hear this good story, if you wouldn't mind sharing it with us, my good friend!" Alastor expressed his interest and looked menacingly at the barkeeper for a few seconds to make it clear that he did not have the privilege of turning his request down.

Fuck you, Larry. This is all your fault. "...we go back a long way." He reluctantly shared the information. "She was obsessed with money back then too, so I saw her in the same casino as me sometimes. Though, she died a long time before me, so I've only really known her since I went to hell." He summarized as briefly as possible.

Angel Dust raised an eyebrow. "That's it?" He asked, a little disappointed, even though he hadn't expected the man in front of him to be a good storyteller. "How did she die?"

Cat eyes looked a little nervously at the two people in front of him, while he didn't make a sound. How unfortunate, Alastor thought to himself, and his sharp teeth showed as he understood the situation. "Looks like Husker isn't allowed to tell us this information. That's very interesting! Very interested indeed..." He laughed, and his creepy gaze shifted briefly to your figure. "Seems like we need to find out directly from the source."

The once Overlord looked over at Angel Dust with slight concern and saw how the spiders' eyes were also glancing towards your form. It wasn't that he didn't trust you, but demons as reckless as him fell into your trap like flies to a web. Besides, it wasn't like he was on your best side right now. "I'd be careful." He said to the crowd even though he didn't give a rat's ass about Alastor. "She's not known for making packs with demons left and right for nothing, and I can assure you there's not the slightest chance of escaping from her contracts once you're in it." He said and added. "That's the price for holding up her end of the deal without any sneaky tricks, I suppose."

Well, that sounded unusual. After all, it was normal that one Demon after another stabbed the other in the back, there was no such thing as trusting the other person's word. But maybe that was why you were so popular. "Calm down, I'm not gonna sell my soul to her." Angel laughed. I couldn't even if I wanted to.

Husker placed another clean glass on the counter. "It doesn't have to be your soul. She'll find something she wants from you, and she's good with her mouth, so you'll give it to her. They all do in the end." He said and reached for a bottle of whiskey, ignoring the two incredulous looks he received. He took a sip and was initially confused as to what was going on with the two until he realized what he had said and choked on his drink. "Words! I meant to say words, damn it." He corrected himself.

Alastor didn't blink for a few seconds, and Angel, on the other side, just laughed amusedly. Maybe he wasn't so wrong with his first guess, after all. "Of course ya were."

"Well, thank you for your kind hospitality, but I'm afraid that I'll be taking my leave now." You spoke to the two girls. As much as Charlie regretted it, she couldn't convince you to spend a few nights at the Hazbin Hotel. Apart from the fact that she would have had a new guest, it might have enhanced the hotel's reputation if someone as renowned as you had visited. Though, unfortunately that didn't work out.

I've messed up again. Charlie tried not to look too depressed, even though she really was an open book. "Oh, all right. Thanks for listening to me."

You smiled while rubbing her shoulder. "Of course, darling." You replied, but that didn't really seem to cheer her up. You couldn't help but be a little gentler with her, she had a good heart for a hell born. "Let's make a deal." You suggested to her as an idea popped into your head.

Right after the sentence came out of your mouth, Vaggie narrowed her eyes and stepped protectively in front of her girlfriend. "Charlie doesn't make deals with demons like you." She said protectively, and you leaned closer to her at what she said. Your pupils narrowed to slits and two more eyes opened menacingly on your face. "What do you mean with demons like me, little lady, hm?" You asked her as the light in the room began to flicker, and you saw her continue to stand her ground, even though you could smell the slight fear emanating from her.

You pulled back again and returned to your normal self. "I'm just kidding, I know I'm a greedy bitch." You laughed out and saw how Vaggies eye twitch in irritation while Charlie laughed along a little uncomfortably. "Well, even though I wouldn't mind making an official deal with the little princess, I was thinking more of a friendly kind of deal." You suggested. "I'll put in a good word if the subject of your hotel comes up with anyone I know, and in return, I'd just like to ask you for a teeny tiny favor."

That didn't sound so bad. It would be good for their image if someone like you would spread a few good things about the hotel. Before Charlie could agree, Vaggie straddled back in. "And what does this favor involve?"

You conjured up a collar with a bell and an old Poloroid camera with a snap of your fingers. "Make Husk wear this and take lots of photos of it. Preferably of the process too, 'cause I'm working on some thank you cards for my company." You say and put the two things in her hands. You then remembered something. "Oh! And give this to him too." You added and handed Charlie a piece of paper. "That bastard owes me sixty thousand dollars 'cause of that Berry guy, or whatever his name was."

You were about to turn around and walk to the door when you met two red eyes right in front of you. "Leaving us so soon, what a shame." Said the Radio Demon with a smile as you took a step back so that you were no longer face to face. "Your presence turned out to be quite entertaining, I too had secretly hoped that you would give our great hotel a chance." He announced, pointing his funny stick at you.

You pushed it aside with your finger. "Well, thank you, Blossom, but I'm afraid my presence is in demand at other places." You pronounced not very regretfully.

He raised an eyebrow and would find your nicknames more amusing if he'd understood the reference. "And where would that be?"

You looked neutral. "I actually have a massage appointment at six. See you then." You said goodbye and went away with a poof after you clapped with your hands.

A few seconds of silence passed after you disappeared, and Vaggie looked at the objects in her hands again, a little questioningly. "So, what's the best way to go about this?" She asked Charlie, who was already looking thoughtfully at the bar. "Let's ask him first. Maybe he's in a good mood."

Vaggie looked at the man in question and saw him drinking a large bottle of alcohol before throwing it in the back to get his hands on another one. "Sweetie, do you know Husk?"

#hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x y/n #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel fanfiction #vivziepop #alastor the radio demon #alastor #alastor x reader #fanfic #hazbin imagine #x reader #x you #x female y/n #x female reader

[hiimcanadia]

Can't stop thinking about how they're going to grow old together.

Stede, who spent the last 20 or so years believing that he was going to spend the rest of his life in a world he hated, surrounded by family who didn't love him, destined to condemn his children to the same terrible life and then die, grumpy and forever unsatisfied

And Ed, who probably never thought he'd make it past his 20s and has spent a good chunk of his career just waiting to be shot or stabbed or hanged or maybe, if he was lucky, go down with his sinking ship and let his body rest at the bottom of the ocean to be picked apart by sharks

But none of that is going to happen now. They found each other, they fell in love, and now they're going to grow old together. They're going to run an inn and get visited by their old crew sometimes. They're going to get bored and decide to pack up and go on vacation whenever they feel like it. They're going to fall asleep next to each other every night and wake each other up with kisses and breakfast in bed every morning. They're going to argue sometimes, but that's okay, because they're still learning how to communicate. They're going to have sex, and they're going to cry and laugh and get hurt doing it and all of that will be equally amazing.

They're going to get old and grey and creaky together, take care of each other as their bodies fall apart, and when they do eventually die, it will be a peaceful affair in a home they built together, and they will be remembered fondly by a crew- a family- who loves them and who will forever be changed by their love

#there's just something so beautiful about mortality ya know? #ofmd #our flag means death #stede bonnet #ed teach #blackbonnet #gentlebeard

[morgaseus]

sometimes, always, never.

inspired by @/yinyuedijun's translation. Absolute amazing fic, cannot recommend it enough!

Slight spoilers for anime onlys.

Orter Madl x reader

Orter is indifferent. 

He’s never one to act on his emotions. You’ve never seen him get angry, not even when he faced a cold blooded criminal who killed his own flesh and blood, not even when the criminal confessed to cruelly killing his child. You imagined yourself lunging at the criminal, stabbing him over and over and over and over, until he was left unrecognizable, until only a pool of blood and blobs of flesh were present. But you settled in gripping your wand so hard, your knuckles turned white. 

You’ve never seen him cry either. Not even when his friend or acquaintance as he called it, died at the hands of innocent zero’s forces. You remember him staring at the lifeless body of his friend, until you had to snap him out of it. But you’re sure, somehow, that his friend's death is the reason why he is now. 

You’ve never even seen him smile either. Not even when he’s with his family. Not even when he’s with you. Ryoh would call him a stuck up with a stick in his butt, you’d laugh and Orter would ignore him.

Sometimes you wondered if he ever loved you at all or if he was only entertaining your shenanigans. He rarely ever takes you out on dates, he’s busy, you understand, but would it hurt for him to make time for you? When you ask him how his mission was, he’d say a few words, not elaborating any further. He never says I love you first, it was always you. But he has too, right? If he didn’t he wouldn’t hold you in his arms and whisper words of promises that he’ll protect you and you needn’t worry because he’s right here, by your side. If you're ever in trouble, just call him and he’ll come right away. He’d say, his words gentle and his eyes full of warmth. How cheesy you think but hearing his words assures you.

Strange.

Sometimes you even wonder if he’s human, capable of feeling emotions. 

Something’s strange. 

Sometimes you’d wonder if you were the problem. Maybe it was you who’s reading it all wrong, maybe you were just trying to push your ideals to him. Yes, you think, maybe. 

You’d ask your friend for advice, and they’d say: You both need to work on communicating.

Something’s definitely strange. 

Orter Madl is indifferent. Ask anyone in town and they’ll say the same thing. I’ve never seen him smile. Well, he gets things done. He’s scary, unlike Mr. Ryoh. He always looks so grumpy. Maybe he just needs someone to lighten him up a bit. That just comes with being a divine visionary, I guess?

Yet why was it…he’s looking at you like he’s about to lose his entire world..?

.

Orter has a hard time expressing what he feels. He’s never cared much what others think or say about him. It’s not like he’ll get a reward or something if he refutes them, so he just let it be. But ever since Alex introduced you… yes, ever since he met you, he’s been feeling something, something he can not put a finger to, but it's definitely something strange.

Strange, definitely. 

Because for the first time Orter Madl felt what fear was. Not even Famin scared him. Not even Innocent Zero scared him. But seeing your bloodied body, in the confines of your shared home did.

It was one of innocent zero’s remnants. He’d been comfortable. He should’ve never left his guard down even after the war. Something wrong was always bound to happen. 

He held you in his arms, even when his shirt was coated with your blood. He’s always been meticulous about his clothing, always particular about it. But he didn't mind. Didn’t care. Right now, all he cared about was you.

Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.

Orter regrets not learning advanced healing magic. He never had any use for it. Why would he when was already powerful to begin with? He believed that was enough to protect you. Stupid. Idiot. Fool. He’d been complacent. His basic knowledge in healing spells wouldn’t do any good. Not with that gaping hole in your stomach. not enough. not enough. But he promised! He promised he’d protect you! 

What a fool. 

He’d tried calling a medic. No answers. Who was he kidding? All of them were deployed already, helping thousands of injured civilians.

Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please don’t die. Don’t die.

Don’t leave me-!

“Why are you crying, orter?”

“Please don’t cry, please”

He almost laughed at the irony of it all. It should be him, comforting you, not the other way around.

“Can you smile for me?”

“I want to see you smile before I go” You say, your chest heaving, mouth soaked with blood.

…He complied

And for the first time he says: I love you. I'm sorry. I love you.

And you say: I know. I love you too. As the light in your eyes vanishes. 

Orter hugs your lifeless body close to him. Tears fall from his eyes. He always loves hearing your voice, sweet and melodious, but now It's quiet, too quiet, save from his heaving and sobbing. He hates it. You always smell like the flowers you grow in your shared garden. Light. Pleasant. Sweet. Light. Pleasant. Sweet. But now you smell of blood. Strong. Metallic. Putrid. Strong Metallic. Putrid. He hates it. 

Orter Madl became a divine visionary so that no more lives will be lost. Yet, what purpose would that be all if he couldn't even save you. What purpose was his being powerful- strong enough, skilled enough, if he couldn’t even save you? 

In the end, he was nothing more but a helpless individual. 

#orter madl x reader #orter x reader #mashle x reader #mashle #orter madl #yuna works

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

What would your headcanons be for the 141 in nursing homes? As in old ass man.

Maybe some extra characters as well? 👀

I'm splitting this up into 3 categories: Physical appearance, personality/behaviour, and overall shenanigans.

John Price

Went bald but still has a killer mustache and a ridiculous amount of body hair and yet all the hair he has left has gone grey. Is SOOO wrinkly. His eyes are hooded/droopy beyond fucking belief.

He's 100% a "Back in my day..." old man. Has def gone half-deaf. Is both a flight risk AND a fall risk but refuses to use his walker/zimmer frame. Is the first one up in the morning, before the staff even changed shifts (consequence of early rising all his life in the military)

Insists on being called 'Captain' by the staff, gives everyone the stink eye if he gets called 'John' or 'Mr.Price'. Sometimes still wakes up dreaming of Makarov and/or Shepherd and spends all day grumpy. Staff hates him.

Simon Riley

Does not go wrinkly. Instead, his skin gets taut and he loses weight and muscle, and becomes skinny/frail. Is VERY hunched over.

Has def lost most of his hearing as well. Is impossible to talk to. A conversation between him and Price spirals from a topic to the next because they misinterpret each other's words. Blasts his fave TV shows (The Price is Right) at top volume all hours of the day.

Has dementia or some other brain degenerative disease, which means he's often lost/confused... So it's not uncommon to see him walking around carrying a cane or umbrella like it's a rifle because he thinks he's still a soldier. Has scared the shit out of night staff by sneaking up behind them with a mask on (where did he get the bloody mask?) and nearly stabbing them with a syringe-like it was one of his knives.

Johnny MacTavish

Does not make it to a nursing home, he's already dead.

Kyle Garrick

Has gone grey but not that wrinkly. Still looks surprisingly good for his age. Is very charming. Wears colourful shirts (Hawaiian and not), and has a nice style... but still wears that stupid bloody hat of his. Has VERY bad hip pain from falling out of helicopters so much.

Is SOOO sweet and polite, and charms all the old ladies AND the nursing staff, every kid that comes visit other grandparents LOVES him. Is the least annoying senior at the nursing home. Also has terrible hearing. Spends his time shouting at Price and Simon to have a conversation.

Still gets taken to veteran/war remembrance days by his family and watches the parades and such... only to look at helicopters with disdain in his eyes and curses them out with a fist.

Alejandro Vargas

Has not gone grey but is a healthy salt-and-pepper. Still keeps his little stubble OR an anchor goatee. Wears glasses now, but they're those types that transition into sunglasses.

His hearing is ALSO shot. Has very shaky hands so he keeps dropping things, especially his pills. Talks crap about everyone with Rodolfo (they gossip in Spanish so no one can hear him.) Is never grumpy. Loves playing cornhole and pétanque.

Is 100% a cougar hunter. Has a silver-tongue and is still so attractive that he just seduces ALL the old ladies. Some of them were still married to their husbands (who were ALSO in the nursing home) and he STILL flirted with them.

Rodolfo Parra

Rudy has gone chubby, wears glasses, and still stays clean-shaven. Wears cardigans and corduroy trousers. Is on a wheelchair.

Is very polite. Spends his time reading in the garden, and likes tending to flowers. Loves a good gossip with Alejandro. Loves playing cards because it's the one game Alejandro cannot play, is very smug about it.

Falls asleep suddenly after meals. Hates Philip Graves with a fucking passion. Hates him so much he still wakes up dreaming about the betrayal in 2022 and gets MAD about it. Wheels himself to Alejandro's room every time and complains. "Pendejo de mierda, Graves."

#asks #moots #cod headcanons #crack headcanons #I promise it's crack #do not take this seriously #I will fill this out with the rest of them tomorrow

[all-pacas]

stupid chase 13 self indulgent sibling shit:

13 is the first one to jokingly refer to chase as her brother. except she calls him her younger brother. chase is like super touched but also hi i'm older than you "sure you are buddy". it's like an ironic "haha we're not actually siblings" joke except secretly no. it's not ironic

13 also has made at least a couple "let's go find dad" jokes about house. she finds it funny and deeply annoying that house and chase don't seem to Get It. it's very obvious to her that chase's deepest dream is for house to pat his shoulder and say "i'm proud my son" but they deny it

at least once 13 has pat chase's shoulder and gone "i'm proud my son"

at least once though. at least one time. "i killed my older brother." "i abandoned my younger sister to rehab." like they know. all their darkest shit. they don't want to be siblings because they did terrible things to their families. but it's why they are

they text. she's constantly sending him photos from her greek island. the food. the beach. look how hot my girlfriend is. he's in the middle of some gross procedure and gets a text of a beautiful sunset. he sends back a photo of a urine sample or some gross wound

when chase quit at the end of s8 and 13 swung by the next episode to talk with wilson the next day? she was staying with chase while she was in town. they mostly just hung out and watched nature documentaries. when wilson called she was like "oh i just happen to be in new jersey, let's meet up" while wearing sweats and sitting on chase's sofa

chase offers to kill her since house is gone and can't. they come up with a rough timeline and plan and then never discuss it again. until it's time.

at least a few dark "oh, shit, i'm wilson now, aren't i?" jokes from her in return. shit, the new house has a dying best friend too! except with so much less sexual tension!! they joke because they can't bring themselves to be serious about it. she tries to set him up with new friends. big advocate for choreman

idk but i get the feeling they'd watch crappy reality tv together.

they'll sometimes just have the darkest and most serious 1 am conversations about morality and souls and what makes a person good or evil, and then the next time they see one another instead of following up it's just "did you see real housewives last night"

chase has never asked 13 for a favor. like he'll ask her little things or let her pay for lunch, but that's about it. meanwhile she can call him at 2 am and he'll show up no questions asked. maybe kind of grumpy about it tho. kind of pisses her off he never lets her return the favor and sort of shut himself off emotionally after s6. but also it's nice? not the "chase's turn towards cynicism" part, but having a standing no questions asked deal.

when he annoys her enough, 13 DOES call chase "robbie" or worse "bobby" but he's never called her by her first name and probably never will

he didn't tell her he got stabbed and she was mad about it because see above. that was a real bobby day

chase knows she doesn't want to fuck around with more huntington's trials but he reads EVERY article and EVERY journal, just in case some miracle comes up. 13 meanwhile follows fake african country politics with a weird intensity to make sure diabla's forces aren't regaining power. they never discuss either thing with one another.

first time 13 visited Chase MD office she forced him to pose in front of the door and took like 15 photos like it was bobby's first day of school. absolutely humiliating

chase goes to 13 and amy's wedding. he's the only one of the PPTH folks who do (taub sends a card. they forgot to tell foreman.)

once 13 was like "we're both hot and single and should do what hot, single people do!" "....have...sex...?" "no, go to a gay bar" they actually go quite a few times

#hate crimes md #robert chase #remy thirteen hadley

[hyrules-warrior]

There needs to be more fics focusing on Joel’s PTSD and other issues after returning to Jackson.

I mean the guy has finally opened himself up after loosing his daughter. He was having panic attacks in episode 6, had full on dissociative episode with the events at the hospital. This guy has issues and finally being safe with Ellie in Jackson, those will start to come out as he relaxes for the first time in 20 years.

There are pancakes for breakfast at the canteen one morning. Joel gets in two bites before he goes white faced and barely makes it outside and between the buildings before he violently throws up everything he has ever eaten in his life and sits there hyperventilating and shaking until Ellie finds him and he comes back to himself. Sarah and him were supposed to have pancakes for his birthday breakfast that last day......before.......

Ellie has horrible nightmares, but so does Joel. Terrifying dreams of failure, of dying in that basement and leaving Ellie alone, of failing to make it to the surgeon in time to stop the surgery, of letting David......... He wakes up and has to stumble over to Ellie’s room to check on her just as much as she does for him after her dreams. Sometimes he is so shaken he has to wake her to make sure she is okay. But usually he just sees and hears her breathing and that is enough. He will settle in the window seat of her room with a gun and keep watch the rest of the night. Unknown or maybe just not acknowledged by both, Ellie herself sleeps the best the nights when he does this.

He has moments of high anxiety where he just has to lean against something for a few moments and breathe through it to settle his ringing ears and pounding heart. He isn’t even sure of the triggers most of the time, it seems to come out of nowhere. He also has sudden moments where he totally checks out but still functions. He is thrust back into survival mode and usually after has no idea why and barely remembers what happened during it. He closes right off, seems to stare at something far away instead of who is with him, his responses come out in his “asshole voice”, cold and distant. People just think he is grumpy, had a rough night or something but Ellie knows better. If she is there she works to keep people off of him and remove him from the situation in case that has triggered this shut down moment. When Ellie is with him her voice and touch grounds him, is the lifeline he tugs on to swim back to the present. It takes 10 times longer to drag himself back if she isn’t there.

His stab wound was major and the first aid done on it was understandably not the best. It never really heals right and remains sensitive. It pulls uncomfortably sometimes and aches horribly on cold winter days or when the pressure drops before a storm. And the phantom pains....... He wakes some nights from feverish dreams of the basement swearing he has just been stabbed all over again. The pain so fresh and sharp he thinks someone broke in and stabbed him there with a red hot fire poker. The first time it happens the wounded animal noises he lets out unbidden scare Ellie so bad she thinks he is dying and her extreme fear is what brings him back to the present. In the future he tries to hide it, dealing with his pain in silence (or attempted silence). Ellie still seems to know though and will silently come into his room and curl against his side allowing him to slowly settle. Or if the pain comes during the day she will push him into laying on the couch and get out the hot water bottle. Heat and seeing Ellie alive and well seems to soothe the pain, chase the winter away from his memory. 

Just like with Ellie’s trauma, these things begin to fade with time and attentive care from the one he needs most.

#I love my joel whump #guy is fucked up too and people seem to forget that #dude needs a million ellie hugs #the last of us #tlou #joel and ellie #joel miller

[crazychaoticizzy]

When You Wish Upon a Star

Levi X Reader

WARNINGS: post war, major character death, angst, longing

Word Count: 1k

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“Levi, when I die I’m going to become a star. So if I die before you I want you to look up at the sky every night and find me, and just tell me how you’re doing.”

Levi furrowed his brow. He looked over at where you were sitting in the plane to find you looking longingly out the window.

“What? You’re not dying.”

You laughed, turning your attention to him. “I’m just saying. You never know what’ll happen.”

Levi is silent. You’re right, he doesn’t know what’ll happen, but he knows that you’ll try your damn best to live. Even if nothing is waiting for you, even if the entire world is against you, you’ll survive.

“Mr. Levi, why are you always so grumpy looking?”

He set the now empty box of candy to the side, looking down at the group of children that had gathered and sat around him. He wasn’t sure why they always came to him, but he didn’t mind it.

“Yeah. You always have this face like”—one child contorts her face into an exaggerated frown—“like that.”

“Is it because you’re lonely?”

That was a stab to his heart. He spent most of his day giving these kids candy. Sometimes Gabi or Falco or whoever would come and wheel him someplace else, so he wasn’t really alone.

But sometimes at night, when he’s struggling to lower himself into the bathtub, he wishes someone were there. Sometimes, when he’s pushing himself around in the morning to make breakfast, he wishes someone would kiss his cheek or tell him, “Good morning.” Sometimes when he watches the kids that sit around him bicker and argue and play with each other, he wishes that he had a little brat of his own.

What he really wishes, is that you were there with him.

“Mr. Levi isn’t lonely! He has his cousin, remember? Or those other people that come and talk to him sometimes.”

“Yeah, but they don’t count. I mean like a girl. Are you married, Mr. Levi?”

“No, I’m not married.” He wishes he was. He wishes he could have convinced you to stay so you could be the one he married, but he couldn’t. He had frozen up and watched you go.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Levi thinks back to what you said to him on that flying ship, back before so many people had to die.

“She’s a star.”

They start snickering, holding their hands tightly over their mouths attempting to muffle them. As children do, they over exaggerate their reaction, falling on their sides as they giggle.

“You can’t date a star! They’re all the way up in the sky so you can’t date one.”

Levi cracks a small smile and doesn’t say anything. As much as they remind him that he can’t be with a star, that he’ll never get the chance to tell you how he really feels, he doesn’t mind because these kids are laughing. They’re smiling so big Levi can see all of their teeth and he thinks that there’s nothing he’d rather be doing.

When he goes home later that day, he asks Gabi to leave him out on the porch for a bit. She complies and Levi tells her to go inside and read a book until he’s ready. He stares out as the sun sets before him thinking about the last time he was able to touch you.

“Hange, if we both go we can stall for longer,” you said. You were already ready, your ODM gear strapped to your hips and legs with thunder spears in yours hands.

“Y/n, you’re being stupid. That won’t-“

“She’s right.” Hange’s voice was soft. Levi could tell they didn’t want you to go either, but they were desperate and needed all the time they could get. “We don’t know how long it’ll take to start the air ship up.”

Levi had blocked the rest from his memory. He’s not sure why, those were the last moments he had with the two of you, after all. He wanted to remember every little detail.

While Hange was appointing Armin as the fifteenth commander, you kept Levi wrapped in your arms. You were taller than him, so his head was tucked into your shoulder as you told him over and over again you loved him.

Tears streamed down your face. You sobbed and ran your hands through his hair and told him the same words over and over again.

He took you in, squeezing you in his arms so hard you were breathless. He tried committing your smell to memory and found himself wishing your hair wasn’t pulled back so he could take in the scent of flowers it always had.

Now you smelled like sweat and dirt. He hated it, but he couldn’t let himself hate it as much as he did because it was you. Part of him wishes you had chosen different paths, ones that didn’t end up here.

He cried, too, but your shirt had absorbed the tears before you pulled away and cupped his face in your hands.

You looked into his eyes, the prettiest steel gray you’ve ever seen and always overflowing with emotion. A soft smile stretched across your face despite the circumstances, and you leaned forward and softly kissed his lips.

“Don’t forget to tell me how you are, okay?” Your voice cracked on the last word, but you refused to cry again. “Every day. I want to hear everything.”

You kissed him once more before pulling away and letting Hange say bye.

And he just stood there when you finally zipped off. He was frozen until Mikasa grabbed him by the shoulder and brought him back to reality.

He remembers wishing it was night while they were in the sky just so he could talk to you again.

But now that the sun had gone down and the moon was hanging in the air, Levi looks up at the sky and finds the brightest star.

And he starts talking.

i got this idea because i watched the princess and the frog and i love ray and evangeline so much (it's a firefly and a star, i know, i'm sorry) and this came to me in a vision and i just needed to write it but i hope y'all enjoyed <3

TAGGING: if you'd like to be tagged whenever I post or Levi comment or DM to let me know!

#izzy’s imagines ❀ #attack on titan #aot #aot x reader #attack on titan x reader #levi ackerman #levi ackerman aot #levi ackerman x reader #snk #snk x reader #shingeki no kyoujin x reader #levi x reader #aot levi #levi aot #levi attack on titan #attack on titan levi

[kingofthe-egirls]

Hear me out, y/n and Zoro are working out, and they like train fight together and y/n wins somehow, Zoro gets all grumpy and pouts and y/n says that they will make it up to him, and Zoro being Zoro, gets an idea, and then rest is up to you my dear writer!!

ooooooooooo ok

SPARRING ROOM: ZORO x Y/N

(cw: sword fighting, sweet self indulgent combat descriptions, minor stab wound, etc., sword language, kissing)

(a/n: so i tried to focus less on just the stage directions this time, since i've been wanting to delve more into the narration and what's going on inside reader's head. snakelike imagery as well as a lot of "S" words. sometimes it felt a lil clunky but we made it through lol)

Songs: "Ain't It Fun" by Paramore, "Sexy Villain" by Remi Wolf

words: 1.9k

"That's my girl," Zoro says, strong hand on your back as you finish up your set of push-ups (thirty second reps with fifteen second breaks between). He lets you sit up, stretching out your back.

"Thanks, Zo," you say, pushing up to standing. You take a long drink of water, drips tickling down your chin and onto your sports bra. Zoro clears his throat, and looks away. You smile.

Swordsmen are so noble.

"Wanna fight?"

Zoro scruffs his hand through his hair, pushing up to standing himself. He towers over you, a good several inches. Maybe a full foot. You knock your forehead into his chest. Headbutting is your way of showing affection, kinda like a cat.

He scruffs your hair, too, from where it's pulled back into a messy ponytail. "Sure," he says, and moves over to the side of the crow's nest where his three swords sit against the wall. You watch the ocean way below, swishing and sparkling as it laps against the Sunny.

You bend to pick up your own rapier, the silver filigree wrapping around your hand comfortably in a decorated knuckle guard. The dancing tiger that stalks its way across the sweepings guides you to victory, all the way down to the rapier's gleaming point.

You swipe it through the air, relishing the swiftness and flexibility of your sacred blade. Nightingale. She is a snakelike, hissing thing that speaks to you in whispers as she flies. You pair her with a short blade, held in your other hand with no less care.

Meadowlark.

Swordsmen are always worried about the length of their swords: the bigger the better. Typical. What they don't account for, however, is the deadliness of a shorter blade. The duck and strike, the rattlesnake bite, the venom of your speed strikes straight through their lowered guard. They always overestimate themselves, since your opponents usually have a longer reach than you. But your rapier is not alone.

She bites.

And so do you.

Swordswomen do not play fair.

You grin over at Zoro, who's checking the edges of his blades so as not to cut you. Speaking to them softly, caressing their sides and gripping their handles like a lover. His voice rumbles lowly across the glossy wooden floor, sweetly beckoning the swords to follow him, obey him, let him rule over them as he spars with his friend.

You almost hear them rattling in his hands.

Purring to your own blade, you remind her sharp edges not to bite so dangerously, but not to go too easy on him either. It's a delicate balance, talking to your swords. She whispers back seductively not to worry, that she'll swing with accuracy but not deadly force. She sighs in your hand, shivering as she readies for battle.

"Easy," you murmur to her, and she sings. Meadowlark buzzes in your hand, adding the bass to her soprano. "Ready?" You ask Zoro, swiping your sword through the air. You stalk towards him, stepping carefully across slats of glossy Adam tree.

Zoro smiles wickedly, placing his white blade between his teeth. He cherishes the handle of Wado Ichimonji as if she were sweetness itself. His sister's spirit lives inside this sword. You respect his three-sword style, and have yet to beat him in a sparring match.

Swiftly, you bow.

Zoro returns the gesture, and brandishes his two swords aloft. Wado Ichimonji gleams in the sharp florescent lighting of the crow's nest. Swiping the air, you stalk around your opponent, noting his strong biceps and flexing center. He lowers his center of gravity, bending swiftly before leaping forward to strike against your guard.

You swipe away the sharp edge of Wado Ichimonji, ducking aside as Zoro lunges forward, sword tilted in his teeth. He steps away from you, just barely, so that your swift disarming counter strikes harmlessly against Sandai Kitetsu's guard. Sparks glint off where the strong metals meet. You swipe Nightingale across his side, but he dodges. You stumble forward, slightly off balance.

"Shit."

Zoro laughs, growling around the white-wrapped handle of Wado Ichimonji. "Start again," he says, standing wide with a lowered stance. Enma gleams sharply in his strong fist. You turn, stepping around in a circle as he counters your movement across the floor.

"Stumbling is never a good sign," Zoro says, swords snickering in their triangle shape. She is making fun of you in particular: the sword singing softly in his right fist. Smirking, even. Zoro matches her sneer as he closes the distance between you in swift, even strides.

"Stop it," you whisper, tightening your grip around Nightingale's sweetly wrapped handle. She has a soft, white leather made from a doe's hide. She is a flourishing, sacred blade.

"Stop what?" Zoro asks, clashing his two swords against your rapier overhead. Sparks fly down between you, and you just barely dodge out of the way of Wado Ichimonji's strike. His three-sword style is a bitch, sometimes. Stepping back, you catch your breath.

He swings, again.

Sweet Meadowlark counters the sharp edge of Enma, screaming across the sharpened steel. You grit your teeth, bringing your dagger all the way down to the hilt of Zoro's katana.

"Not you," you hiss out through a clenched jaw. Staring at Sandai Kitetsu, you push forward even more, enough to get Zoro to stumble backward. He counters, quickly. He faints with Sandai Kitetsu, before slashing sideways at your open side. You yelp, a sharp, high-pitched noise at the back of your throat. Zoro smirks.

"Swords are makin' fun of ya?"

Snickering, the three katanas all bear down on you from overhead. He's so fast. You grunt, blocking them with rapier and dagger crossed above you. He knees you in the stomach.

"Ouch!" You scream, winded. You stumble backward, clutching at your abdomen. You spit saliva onto the floor. Zoro chuckles.

He plants both feet on the floor, standing shirtless in front of you, with nothing but his leather pants and green bellyband. You're only in a sports bra and shorts, yourself. Swiping Nightingale through the air, you sprint toward him at full speed.

Fainting with Nightingale, you strike at Zoro's blind side, before ducking quickly and jabbing Meadowlark straight into his chest.

"Shit!" You squeak, ripping your steel dagger out of Zoro's bloodied chest. You hit right between the ribs, on the side with his good eye. Blood trickles down his abs in a scarlet ribbon. You smile.

Strike One: Y/n.

But the victory tastes sweet for only so long, as Zoro bears down on you with a counterattack. You dodge out of the way, but only slightly, as Sandai Kitetsu shears off a lock of your hair.

"Fuck!" You scurry backward, a rogue at heart, meant to strike and retreat as quickly as possible. Zoro stalks forward again.

This time, he twirls Enma in one hand before striking down viciously at you with a barrage of attacks. Slashes, stabs, lunges. Swipes at your side, especially the side where you hold shorter Meadowlark.

"Shut up," you tell his sassy sword, who's been snickering at you this whole time. She chides your balance, your sword play, the way you're standing with too much weight on your left side.

She glides snakelike against your dagger, bouncing off the side. Your arm stings with the recoil. Shit. You barely keep your stance in place as you're forced to shuffle backward. Sandai Kitetsu bites your upper arm, and you hiss.

"Stop dodging," Zoro commands you, striking the wall behind you, right next to your head. "You have to fight back, or else you'll be dead." Sandai Kitetsu giggles in his hand.

You're panting, sweating with exertion. Zoro's strikes are so strong. He's stepping away from you now, giving you room to breathe. You hate when he goes easy on you. Snarling, you charge forward again.

Zoro meets you halfway, growling in his throat.

Your swords clang together harshly, metallic singing reverberating throughout the room. You both back up, stepping in tune with the other's movements. He stalks around you like a tiger, and strikes at your backside. He hits you with the flat of Sandai Kitetsu's blade.

"You're weak."

He challenges you, and you see red.

It's a spin, a stab, and a dance backwards, before your vision clears. Zoro is grimacing, another bright red stripe decorating his bare chest. It's right above his sternum, and a little to the left.

He grunts, and charges after you.

Swinging at your weak spot, Zoro brings Enma down toward your side. You block the strong, sweeping arch with the silver side of Nightingale's cross guard. She resonates with the sound of the blow.

You both hold for a second, struggling to push the other's weight off.

Eventually, you let go with a huff.

"That's enough," you decide, whipping your sword through the air with a signature flourish. Zoro nods, sheathing his own blades.

"Good job," he nods, heading back over to the side to wipe his face with a towel. He throws it into the dirty clothes hamper that one of you will eventually take down to the laundry room when it gets too full.

"Yeah, right," you seethe, jaw clenched. "I wish I was anywhere near as strong as you. I can be fast, and invasive, but...," you raise your shoulders, and let them fall with a defeated sigh. "Sheer strength-wise, you've got me beat."

Zoro shakes his head, "You're not that far behind me, actually." He sits down on the bench, elbows on his knees with a canteen in his hands. He chugs a lungful of water, adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.

"Yeah?"

You sheath your swords, and start a cool-down stretch routine. You lean over to one side, and then the other. You shake your legs in their sockets, trying to loosen up your hip flexors.

Zoro nods. "Not everyone can fend off Enma." He regards you steadily, his green eye flicking you up and down. You stretch your arms over your head. "Especially with a blade that flimsy." He smirks at your rapier, and you huff.

"She is not flimsy." You cross your arms, nose in the air. Nightingale hums in agreement at your side. Zoro sneers a laugh.

"Plus, you can understand sword language better than any other swordsman I've met. Not even Mihawk can hear his sword so well."

At that, you pause.

Your fingers flutter around Nightengale's hilt, and you grin. "Thanks, Zoro. That means a lot."

His face flushes, and he looks away.

"Well, yeah...," he says, gruff, before pushing off the bench to make his way over to you. He skims his knuckles over the outside of your arm. His fingertips dance along the diamond pommel of your sacred blade, and you gasp. He arches an eyebrow. "Feel that?"

You nod, stunned.

"That's the bond between a swordsman and his blade."

"Her blade," you correct, and he snorts.

"Rematch after dinner?" He pulls away, and leaves you aching. You stumble after him, a step or two. He turns, pausing, with his lips parted. Your swords are clattering at your side. He looks you up and down, a question paused in his mouth that you can't quite read.

"Kiss me?"

Zoro blanches, and for a moment you're stuttering, shocked at your own bravery, boldness, yours and his swords are all clamoring to be heard above the din of blood rushing in your ears, and--

Zoro cocks his head, smirking, and closes the distance between you.

He takes both your arms in his hands, holding you by the shoulders, and leans forward to place a kiss on your waiting lips.

"How's that?"

You smile like a little kid. "Perfect," you say, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in to deepen the kiss.

You can't wait for the rematch.

#this is so hard #sword fights #hard to describe #zoro #zoro x you #zoro x reader #zoro x y/n #zoro fanfic #one piece fanfic #zoro fluff #dumpster dive #kitty writes

[astroboots]

RED FLAGS ║ PART 10

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You and Steven try to get used to your new life together without Marc. Or alternatively: Marc is playing (the not ridiculous and totally mature version of) Hide and Seek.

Content: mild angst, implied mentions of child abuse (blink and miss it), reminiscing about fish death, otherwise quite tame for me.

Word Count: 10,000 words

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

You

Steven and I were at a bookstore today and I saw a very grumpy pug that reminded me of you. 

Steven wants a dog now. If you don’t want that you need to come back because I’m not gonna stop him.

Weeks have passed since Steven’s prodigal return.

It’s almost been a return to how things were before, with Steven picking you up from work, occasional romantic dinners out, and evenings cuddled up in bed reading together or watching documentaries on the sofa. 

It’s almost perfect. 

It ought to be perfect. 

The only thing missing from your previous routine is waking up to the quiet noise of clutter in the kitchen and the smell of breakfast filling the room, to Marc.

Your intuition had been correct: Marc is avoiding you. Despite the fact that you’ve practically moved into Steven’s flat, you’ve not seen him once.

According to Steven, Marc still fronts in the middle of the night sometimes, but to do what, you don’t know. It’s one more thing Steven “can’t tell you right now” because it’s Marc’s business. And as frustrating as that is, you don’t push—at least, not with Steven. 

Instead, you’ve focused your energy on attempting to lure Marc out. Texting him at random times of the day. Cluttering up the space, leaving yours and Steven’s clothes in random spaces, putting the dishes away in the wrong order—things you know will drive him mad.

You’ve even tried staying up all night in hopes of catching Marc in the act, but the only thing you caught was sleep deprivation. It’s left you exhausted and cranky in the morning, mistake-prone at work and ready to bite everyone’s head off. 

Recognizing the futility of continuing to bash your head against the wall of Marc’s stubbornness, you’ve reluctantly settled into the new status quo while you consider what to do. 

Tonight you and Steven are staying in. The rain is pouring down outside, making London wet and miserable, but you’re safely ensconced in the warmth of Steven’s flat, propped up in bed while he sits nearby in his worn leather armchair, reading glasses perched adorably on his nose as he peruses a thick tome. 

But for once, his studies don’t seem to be capable of holding his attention, and you keep glancing up to find him staring off into space, brow furrowed, the book abandoned in his lap. 

The first time you followed his gaze to the fish tank, you’d felt a stab of worry that you’d find Gus II floating belly-up in the water, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary that you can see. 

The orange goldfish is swimming across the length of the tank, happily oblivious to his predecessor’s fate and the fact that he’s being observed.  The journey continues until his little fishy head bumps up against the glass panel, and he turns around, repeating the process in reverse, only to do the same thing on the other side. 

It’s hardly a riveting sight, but Steven seems entirely engrossed. He looks a million miles away, lost in his thoughts. 

“Do you think,” he says eventually, “that goldfish ever get lonely?”

“Oh, um…” You blink at him, a bit startled by the soft question, though you’re not sure why. It’s hardly the first time Steven has expressed concern about the wellbeing of an animal—he’s a vegan after all—and you’ve seen him beside himself while watching a killer whale hunt down baby seals on an arctic beach on Animal Planet. 

This feels different somehow.

“I’m not sure actually,” you hedge, wracking your brain for a proper answer, “I know guinea pigs get lonely and are meant to be kept in pairs, but I don’t really know if the same is true of fish.” 

Steven nods solemnly, and turns back to the fishtank, eyes wide and melancholy, an unhappy slump to his shoulders. 

Watching him watch Gus II’s lonely, pointless vigil back and forth, you wonder if it’s Marc that Steven’s thinking about now. 

If he feels lonely, having effectively lost his newly revealed other half again so soon after discovering the truth. 

If he misses Marc the way you–

You shake the thought away, taking a deep breath before you hold up your phone to catch his attention.

“Shall I google it?”

Steven immediately brightens up. Quickly marking his place in the book, he sets it aside and makes his way over to join you on the bed so you can google it together.

‘Do goldfish get lonely?’

Unfortunately, no matter how many pages of results you scroll though, there doesn’t seem to be any strong consensus. 

Several websites are adamant that goldfish do not feel loneliness and can live a long and happy and fulfilling life alone. But there seem to be just as many saying the opposite. An article from the Telegraph strongly admonishes its readers that goldfish should be kept in pairs at least when in captivity.

Eventually, your hour-long Google bender finally ends with you two reaching the unsatisfactory conclusion of: ‘nobody knows for sure.’

You put away your phone on the nightstand and glance at Steven. He’s staring up at the fishtank again, wringing his hands in a way that makes your chest tighten. Somehow he seems even more unsettled than before.

“You know,” you point out hopefully, “nothing we found says that having a companion would make a goldfish unhappy as long as they have enough space. And your tank is certainly large enough for two.”

When Steven doesn’t reply, you prod gently, “Would you maybe like to get Gus the Second a friend?”

At that, the tension Steven is holding finally seems to thaw, his shoulders relaxing as he turns to you.

“That’s a nice thought, isn’t it?” he says, face alight with a small, soft smile.

You

FYI we did not get robbed yesterday. Steven tried to make dinner. He’s going to try again tonight. I know you hate messes so you might want to come back to stop him. 

For two men who share half of their lives with each other, there’s a distinct lack of physical evidence of Marc in Steven’s flat.

Of the hundreds of books crammed into every nook and cranny of the wooden shelves sprawled across the flat, not a single one belongs to him. The messy closet filled only with Steven’s garish patterns and oversized items. In fact, Steven's personality and interests are writ large within this space—in the half-scribbled notes left on the desk, the postcards tacked on all random surfaces, the organised chaos that seems to reign. It’s obvious that this is Steven’s home.

But is it Marc’s?  

You’ve yet to identify a single item in the entire flat that belongs to him. No proof of address. Nothing.

Now that you no longer wake up to him standing in the kitchen most mornings, pottering around in that quiet calm way of his, it’s almost like he never existed in the first place. 

You hate it.

You look down at the handful of mismatched flatware you’ve just put back in the drawer then back up at Steven where he stands at the sink next to you, elbow deep in lukewarm dishwater.

Even the dishes are Steven’s.

“Does Marc have another flat?” you ask, unsettled by the idea that Marc might have another home that you know nothing about.

“Don’t think so,” Steven says, glancing up from the plate he’s scrubbing, “Why?”

“He doesn’t seem to have any belongings here. I was wondering if he kept his things somewhere else.”

“He’s got a storage unit. I’ve been there once. Marc had a sad little cot setup there. Not much in the way of belongings there either. I don’t think he owns much,” he says, rinsing the plate clean.

You stare down at the tea towel, twisting it in your hands, and your stomach twists with it.

A storage unit. 

With a cot. 

That’s even worse, isn't it? To think that Marc might not have a home anywhere at all.

And now he’s retreating farther than ever. Ceding the daytime hours, and even most nights to Steven. Keeping nothing for himself. Your lives wiped clean of traces of Marc, the same way the flat has been. 

You feel sick at the thought.

Steven doesn’t say anything more, and you don’t either. The two of you work in silence, as he washes the dishes and hands them off to you to dry and then put away in the cupboards—a bowl, another plate, a sharp knife, and then a large plain ceramic mug.

Marc’s mug.

As Steven hands it to you, you have a flash of Marc taking it from your hands, full to the brim of the coffee you made for him. The memory of his quiet “thanks” makes your heart hurt.

Christ, get it together. You’re getting soppy over a bloody tea cup, for God’s sake.

It doesn’t even really qualify as Marc’s, despite being the only one amongst Steven’s collection of mugs without a quirky motif. Marc never claimed ownership of it in any way. 

Shaking your head, you walk to the cabinet and tuck the mug back up into its usual spot. As you lower your arm, the old coffee maker in the corner of the counter catches your eye, gleaming in the light of the kitchen. 

It looks... remarkably clean, which, for anything in Steven's flat, is an oddity in itself. You haven’t made coffee in weeks—not since before Marc disappeared—but the glass practically shines. Reaching out, you swipe a fingertip against the top surface and frown as it comes away dust-free. 

“Steven, have you been using the coffee maker lately?” 

“Hmm?” He turns around, arms sudsed with dishwater up to his elbow. “No, not for years. Had to stop drinking coffee ‘cause it made me jittery—or, well, worse than I am already. Why do you ask?”

“The coffee maker’s clean. There's no dust on it at all.” 

Steven hums in reply, looking like he's deep in thought. 

“That’s probably Marc’s doing. He drinks coffee sometimes when he’s up running around in the middle of the night, I think.” 

You nod in response, your finger lingering over the button panel. 

Does this old coffee maker qualify as something of Marc’s? Perhaps there is one thing that belongs to him in the flat after all.

It’s pretty banged up. The paint is chipped, and the control panel scratched up to the point that the labels are mostly worn away. It hadn’t mattered before, as all you’d needed to know was to push the first button—the ‘ON’ button, you suppose, though the lettering has long since worn away—to start the coffee brewing, but now you stare at the thing, trying to decipher the rest of the labels. 

“What does this button do?” you ask, pointing to the second button. It reads 'lay b ew' which makes no bloody sense. 

Steven turns off the running tap, putting down the wet plate in his hand, and comes to stand behind you where he can peek over your shoulder at the button you’ve indicated. 

“That must be the delay timer button so you can set the coffee pot at night for the morning.”

You peer into the open cupboard. Instead of the mug you’ve just put away and the drab cupboard, all you can see is Marc is sitting by the counter. The faint morning sun streaming down his wide shoulders as he tips the mug to his lips and takes a sip. An echo of warmth tingles against your fingertip at the faded scene playing out in your memory. 

You lean up until you’re on your toes and take the mug, cradling it in your hands. “Do you think perhaps I could set it to make the coffee for Marc? I used to make him coffee in the mornings when we had breakfast together.”

Steven smiles at you, soft crinkles forming around his eyes. “Of course, love. I think Marc would like that a lot.” 

Buoyed by his encouragement, you grab the coffee from the top shelf, reciting the water-to-coffee ratio in your head—one scoop of coffee for each ounce of water. 

Reaching for the spoon you start scooping it out, smiling a little to yourself as you imagine Marc discovering the coffee you’ve made just for him. 

“Love, love!” Steven half-shouts, “What are you doing?”

You stop mid-scoop, look from Steven’s face, down at the mound of ground coffee in the filter, and then back up at him. Steven looks horrified, eyes wide with a mix of surprise and genuine concern. 

“Making... coffee...?” you answer hesitantly, “Is this not right? I’ve always done it like this. This is how Marc drinks it.”

“I'm pretty sure no one in their right mind drinks coffee like that,” Steven says, eyes still wide, though amusement is creeping into his voice now.

You stop and frown. 

You look back down at the packet of coffee beans as you think of Marc's fingers wrapped around the handle of the mug as he took it from you. The way he’d give you a small almost-smile, looking right at home as he finished the coffee you made him down to the last drop. 

“Oh.” 

You

I’ve made you some coffee using the delay brew setting. It should be ready when you get up.

Steven has informed me that my coffee is in fact not drinkable. If he's right, you might need to come back and teach me how to make coffee properly. 

It becomes another part of your nightly routine: prepping the coffee maker and setting out Marc's mug. You still sometimes have trouble remembering the proper (according to Steven!) water to coffee ratio, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Regardless of how much or little ground coffee you add, in the morning, without fail, you find the coffee maker empty, mug and carafe both propped up in the dishrack to dry.

You're standing at the counter one Saturday morning, tucking them both back into their proper places, when you get a text from your old mate Sam.

Sam

hey fam! guess what!

You

?

Sam

guess!!!

You

Guess… what?

Sam

🤨 nvm

You

Sorry, what?

Sam

really making me work for it huh

remember my mate karim?

You

No?

Sam

🐠🐠🐠 guy?

You

Oh yeah! ofc.

Sam

he just got in a one-finned goldfish like your bf was asking for. he still want it?

Steven gives you a curious tilt of his head as he reads out part of the conversation out loud when you show him the exchange. “Fish, fish, fish... guy?” 

“Yeah. He has a bunch of tanks in his cellar. It’s how we got,”—you gesture vaguely at the tank containing Gus II—“this one.”

“Oh, right. You did say.” 

His expression turns from confusion to a bright expression, like someone’s turned on a cartoon lightbulb behind his eyes. 

“I was just thinking that I did want to get Gus a friend after all,” he says smiling enthusiastically. “Right proper bit of good timing, that is!” 

Steven tilts his head to the other side, as his eyes flit across the screen like he’s rereading it, then his eyes narrow in confusion. “What does he mean by your boyfriend asking for a one-finned goldfish?”

You eye the fish as it circles the water gracefully, both fins on full display, and recall Marc's constipated expression as he had stood by the tank glaring at those very two fins. 

“Marc made a big fuss about wanting to find one identical to Gus,” you tell him, as you watch Gus II knock his head up against the glass again, “down to the single fin, and I guess my friend remembered.”

From across you, Steven's gaze is fixed on the tank with a slight frown on this face. He's observing the golden fish with a vacant look in his eyes like he's watching it but not seeing it.

“You all right, Steven?”

“Yeah, I'm just...” His eyes flicker across the length of the tank, then he turns back to face you, “What I don't understand is why Marc didn’t just leave Gus’ little fishy corpse floating in the tank.” 

He turns back around to face you, as he continues, “It certainly would’ve been easier. And a dead fish is more believable than one regrowing a fin, isn’t it? Pets die all the time. I might not have realised anything was off at all if he'd done that.”

It's the very same thing you’d told Marc the night he had come to you for help. 

You can still remember the way he had looked standing at your door, asking for your help, hair in an uncharacteristic disarray of curls. How besides himself he was with worry for Steven’s sake.   

“Marc didn't want you to be upset,” you say. 

Steven looks up at your words, eyes widening with surprise. 

“He knew how much Gus meant to you, and wanted to protect you from being hurt,” you continue, “That mattered to him more than anything else, I think.”

There’s a brief silence as Steven processes your words, then after a moment he lets out a quiet huff of laugh and shakes his head in disbelief. 

“It’s hard to imagine Marc behaving like a parent trying to get a replacement hamster from the shop,” Steven says, giving you a wry smile, “But that’s him, isn’t it?  Wanting to protect the people that matter to him at all costs. Even from things we don’t really need protecting from.”

Neither of you say anything for a few moments after that, as the sound of the Blue Planet rerun on the telly fills the silence left behind. You vaguely register Attenborough’s soothing narration in the background, but don’t take anything in when Steven eventually asks, “When do you think you’ll go meet your friend?” 

“He said he was free pretty much all day today, I was thinking of heading off soon, before traffic gets too bad in the afternoon.” 

Steven gets to his feet and walks over to his desk, picking up his jacket that's been slung over the back of the chair and threading his arms into the sleeves. Watching him, you half expect him to make the same assessment his grouchy alter did: Men who keep fishes in their cellar are dangerous serial killers. 

Instead, Steven flashes you a sweet and benign smile. 

“All right if I come along with you? I can keep you company, yeah? I know how much you hate the DLR,” he says, glancing at you for approval, and you give a quick nod.

“Besides,” he adds, eyes bright with enthusiastic wonder, like a kid who's heading off on a school trip, “I'm quite curious about the cellar aquarium. Sounds like quite the sight, and I’d like to see it with my own eyes."

You break into a smile of your own. Two men that couldn’t be further apart, and yet even with diametrically opposed reasoning, the end result is still somehow the same. 

------

It's just before noon when you reach the DLR station with Steven in tow. Thankfully the crowd is nowhere near as bad as the last time you made this trip. 

Still, when you enter the train, most seats are already taken. The only unoccupied spot is splattered with something unpleasant-looking, so you and Steven head down the carriage in the opposite direction. You’re lucky enough to score yourself a safety rail to hold onto just as the DLR starts its bumpy journey. 

As always, the train undulates like a boa constrictor that’s managed to get into the liquor cabinet. But this time you manage to keep your footing as the carriage lurches forward by gripping the railing for dear-fucking-life. 

Steven isn't quite as lucky. 

You barely catch the panicked “bugger” as he starts to lose his balance, about to tip over like a helpless tortoise, and you reach out without thinking, grabbing one of his flailing hands so he doesn’t fall.

“Are you all right there, Steven?” you ask, straining to hold your position as he uses you for leverage to steady himself, and then wrapping your arm around his waist once he regains his equilibrium. 

“Yeah…” he mumbles, blinking at you for a moment, a flush tinting his cheeks, “Yeah, I’m aces. Thanks for the rescue.” 

He smiles down at you, eyes crinkling in a way that makes your heart flimmer erratically, and wraps his hand around the same railing you’re holding onto, fingers warm where they overlap yours. 

“You’re welcome, but let’s stay like this until we get there just in case.” you say, wrapping your arm more firmly around him and snuggling into his chest. You can’t see his face but you can feel his head nod in approval.

Steven’s free hand comes up to settle over your back between your shoulders, holding you tight to him, the two of you steadying each other as the train keeps swaying forward. Even though his palm is resting over your coat, you swear you can feel his warmth through three layers of clothing.

You press your nose to the fabric of his jacket, inhaling the scent of him.  He smells like his soap, the clean linens of your shared bed, and beneath that, a hint of coffee. The last one familiar these days, lingering like smoke after an extinguished fire, and it always makes you think of Marc. Irrefutable proof that he still exists in the world, even if he only ventures out into it after you fall asleep.

It’s a bumpy ride, but eventually the train slows to a stop at ‘Canning Town’ station. Just like last time, you find yourself thinking that it's almost a shame your journey on the DLR wasn't longer. 

Unlike last time, a bright clear sun is shining down on you when you step out of the train, mitigating some of the November chill.

Steven’s hand curls over yours, tucking both into his pocket, and you’re glad for the added warmth as the two of you walk down the Docks, along the mismatch of newly built high-rise flats and small brick row-houses. 

As you reach the familiar council estate, you spot Sam and his friends waving towards you from across the street, and Steven waves back, like they're old friends already. He’s already taking a step forward to cross at the traffic light, when you suddenly remember that despite the familiarity this will be the first time Sam and Karim meet Steven. 

“Wait,” you hiss, flinging a hand out to grip his forearm, “They think you're Marc,” you warn, and Steven nods slowly with understanding on his face. 

“Right,” he says, flashing you a cheeky grin, “So, emotionally constipated, perpetually frowning, and just generally a complete prat? Got it.”

His fingers come to his forehead, slicking back his hair with a touch of dramatic flair. Then he furrows his brows theatrically, lips pulling downwards into an exaggerated imitation of Marc’s frown, and you have to hide your grin as you turn to walk.

Crossing the street, Steven is visibly holding himself back. He’s pulling himself upright, as he juts his chin up in a brusque greeting, while schooling his features and tampering down the smile that you know is twitching at his lips. It’s a very commendable effort on his part. 

But the moment you make it inside the house, and Steven catches sight of the hall lined with aquariums, his mock-frown falls away and his eyes widen with wonder. That uncharacteristic straight line of his lips, rounds with an audible, “wow” that slips out of him. Then he's all toothy smiles and excitement as he points to a particular colourful fish that glitters behind the glass of one of the numerous fish tanks. 

You watch as he waves at the fish, and then turns around to Karim to ask a half-dozen more animated questions that the man answers with gusto. 

Steven spends the whole time listening attentively as Karim gives a guided tour of his fish cellar, nodding along with undivided attentiveness as his eyes track the colourful fishes that are being introduced to him one by one.

The stark difference between Steven's and Marc’s behaviour doesn't go unnoticed. 

“Your boyfriend’s like a completely different person today,” Sam remarks. “He's so… ” 

He pauses mid-sentence, and hums consideringly as he observes Steven with an amused smile. 

“I get it now, what you said last time—a big softie.”

Down the row of tanks, Steven is pointing excitedly at a puffy looking fish. It must be a rare one, judging from how elated he is. Despite the fact that Steven is absolutely blowing your cover, you can't help but smile fondly at his obvious excitement and joy. 

“Yeah. Yeah, he really is,” you answer, as you feel a prickling warmth spread across your chest. 

“So tell me,” Sam says as he grips his jaw in his hand, scratching his beard like a ponderous professor, “Which one is the real him?”

You freeze at the question, not sure how you can even begin to answer that. 

Glancing over at Steven, you still see him wide-eyed and smiling, hovering over the very same goldfish tank that Marc was gruffly standing by as he was inspecting it studiously with a set frown for a replacement fish. 

You give Sam the only answer that rings true to you:

 “They both are.”

-----

Surely, you must be stuck in some kind of 80’s Sci-fi movie, because you seem to be trapped in a closed loop of deja-vus. 

You're standing in the middle of Steven's flat, once again with a plastic bag in hand as you scoop (what is this time, a one-finned) goldfish into the large fish tank. 

It lands with a distinct plop into the water, and then swims down with a pirouette around Gus II. 

Steven is standing next to you by the tank, so close you’re shoulder to shoulder, huddled together, hunched over the glass, close enough for your noses to leave fog on the surface as you observe the two fishes dance around each other to become acquainted. 

It all feels so similar that, when you feel his shoulder brush up against yours and that familiar pleasant tingle climbs up your back, you have to remind yourself that this time the person standing next to you is Steven, not Marc. 

Turning your head, you look over at Steven who's watching the fishes intently. When he notices you staring, he slowly turns to you and smiles, eyes crinkling softly, and the joy of it lights up your chest. 

You

We visited Sam and Karim again. 

Say hi to Gus III. He’s the one with one fin. 

Steven got very excited after seeing the fish cellar and is thinking of getting a second tank. 

If you don't come back, I'll let him. 

It's six pm and you’re in a hurry to get out of the office. Steven had texted earlier, asking if you wanted to try the new sushi place that opened up down the block tonight, and you are starving.

Exiting the elevator, you look around for Steven, surprised when you don’t immediately spot him. He almost always comes to pick you up now, even when you don’t have dinner plans. Perhaps he’s running late?

Susan must notice your confusion, because she catches your eye and waves you over.

“Over there, pet,” she says, pointing towards the front of the building, “Said he had to talk to someone.”

You follow her finger to see your wayward boyfriend standing with his back to you in the far corner of the reception area, phone held to his ear. The early dark outside has turned the wall of glass at the front of the building into an imperfect mirror, and you smile watching Steven gesture animatedly with his free hand as he talks to whoever’s on the other end.

“Cheers, Susan.” You give her a wave, heading off to let him know you’re done. Perhaps you can walk as he talks?

As you get closer, you can hear that there’s a plaintive tone to Steven’s murmuring, like he’s trying to plead his case to someone. You slow your approach, wondering who he’s talking to, but not wanting to interrupt in case it’s important.

“That’s not gonna happen,” he snaps suddenly, back going rigid, and you freeze in your tracks, because it’s not Steven’s voice, but a clipped, impatient American accent that you haven’t heard in forever. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re both better off without me.”

His eyes in the mirror are narrowed and impatient. A scowl pressed between the firm line of his mouth as he glares at his own reflection.

“Marc,” you gasp his name without thought. Marc is here.

He jerks around at the sound of your voice, and for a split second, you catch sight of Marc’s eyes, wide and pained under furrowed brows, then they widen even further, brow smoothing out as he blinks several times in quick succession, looking apologetic and a little bit shellshocked. Even before he opens his mouth to speak, a part of you already knows. 

“Sorry, love,” Steven says in his thick South Londoner accent, and your heart sinks to your stomach. “Marc left, it's just me now.” 

He turns back to the window, and you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to tamp down the surge of disappointment and the ridiculous urge to burst into tears.

Watching Steven narrow his eyes at his reflection, you recalled what he’d said about mirrors. He hadn’t been on the phone at all, had he? Neither had Marc. They’d been communicating through the reflective surface of the glass. Talking to each other for the first time in months, and you had to go and ruin it by opening your big mouth and interrupting.

You wonder if Marc is still there in the glass, watching, but judging from the frustrated expression on Steven’s face you doubt it. He shakes his head in resignation before turning back to you, reaching over and gently tucks a lock of hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry, love. I don’t think he’s going to come back,” he says, giving you an obviously-forced smile, “Shall we go get dinner?” 

“No, I... um...” You shake your head, forcing a smile that likely doesn’t look any more authentic than his, any excitement over trying a new place drowned out by the heavy weight of disappointment and regret that sits in your stomach like a stone, “I’m not all that hungry just now. Can we just go home?”

“Of course, love. Anything you want.”

If only that were true.

You

Steven made dinner tonight. You might have burn marks on your left hand. You better come back quick before he burns down the flat.

It’s another Saturday evening and you’re prepping the coffee maker to 'delay brew' another batch of coffee for Marc. You pause, bag of ground coffee in hand, before scooping it out. 

“So it’s one scoop per serving, right Steven?” you call out, just to double check, but there’s no answer, “Steven…?”

Turning, you find him bent over in front of the fish tank. In the reflection of the glass pane, you catch Steven’s distracted expression, but it takes you a few seconds to register that even though he’s staring at the tank, his eyes aren't really tracking the Gus twins. 

For a heartstopping moment you think maybe Marc is talking to him again, but then you take in the way his eyes linger on the upper corner of the glass and the postcards taped there. Postcards that are nominally from his mum, though you both know better now.

“Steven,” you call again, setting down the coffee and the measuring spoon, “Everything all right?” 

Steven startles, bolting upright like he’s snapping out of a trance. 

“Huh!? Oh. Yeah, yes. Sorry.” He gives you a sheepish smile as you come to join him in front of the tank. “Just looking at these.” 

Reaching out, he traces a finger over the edges of the postcard taped back-out to the glass surface.

“It’s a bit surreal, reading this again now that I know Marc sent it, not mum.”

There’s something bittersweet in his smile, and the way his eyes shade into mournfulness makes you want to pull him into a hug and never let go.  

“Paris is lovely,” he reads out from the card. “Wish I could take you! You’d love the museums here. Love you so much, Mum.”

Then he stops, and your heart breaks a little bit as he stares down at the handwritten message. 

You’re sad for Steven that words of love he had believed to be from his mum weren’t from her at all. You’re sad for Marc that he had to keep up this pretence, lonely and isolated in the far-off corners of the world, carrying the weight of the truth for both of them.

With a sigh, Steven straightens up, reaches over to carefully unpin a  postcard from the wooden edge of the bookcase next to the tank and reads that one too. 

“In Cairo. The pyramids reminded me of the amazing work you do at the museum. So proud of you!” 

He shakes his head in amusement, chuckling lightly as he reaches over to show it to you. 

“He even put a heart on it at the end,” he says, and you can’t help but smile at the image of Marc bent over some table, painstakingly signing off the card with a cartoon heart.

You watch as Steven carefully fits the pin back through the existing hole in the card and repins it to the wood before moving on to the one just below it. 

“Happy birthday from New York. Wish I could be with you to celebrate with a birthday cake. You deserve the best day! Love, mum.”

That one gets a sigh, a sad smile and a small shake of his head before Steven repins it with the same meticulous care. 

One by one, Steven gently detaches the postcards adorning the wooden shelves, over, under and on the sides of the tank, and reads each one aloud before returning it carefully to its place. 

There must be at least fifty of them filling the space in his flat, from one remote destination after another.

Each message is filled with love and care. Words of encouragement, spelling out how proud she is of him. How much she wants for him to be happy. How she's always there for him. That she's just a phone call away. That he's never alone. 

Then Steven goes quiet, head dipped, as he stares blankly at the postcard of Austria in his hand. 

“The notes were always so loving and supportive, they always made me feel like I was a little bit less alone, you know?” he finally says, breaking the silence, and the corners of his mouth pulls into a sad smile again.

“I think... I think it must’ve been what Marc wanted to hear from our mum growing up but never got to. He must've wanted to make sure that someone got to hear these things from her… even if it was all just a lie.”

Shifting your feet, you simply nod at him, not knowing what else to say. Their mum is a bit of an enigma to you. Before today, you’ve only ever heard of her from Steven’s perspective as a loving and attentive mum. 

But there’s no doubt, as you’re watching him now, seeing the pain etched into his face as he thinks of his mother, that the rosy image he’d painted previously is far from the full picture.

You recall that morning in the kitchen when you had first brought up the postcards to Marc. The way that Marc had hunched into himself, his usual confident stance crumbling before your eyes at the mere mention of their mother. The way he seemed to be trying to make himself invisible and wincing as if expecting a blow.

You know enough now about DID and the medical consensus on what causes it.

Steven doesn’t need to tell you much more than that, you can read between the lines well enough.

“Are you going to keep them, do you think?” you ask instead. 

His head pops up, eyes wide as he blinks up at you in surprise, clutching the postcard tightly to his chest as though you might try to take it from him.

"Yeah,” he says, voice rasping quietly, then nods firmly and repeats it with more certainty the second time, “Yeah, ‘course I am. Of course. They may not have been from my mum, but they're from someone who cares about me.” 

He pins the card back into place with reverent care, then lets his hands fall to his sides. 

“Just wish that Marc could’ve had that for himself too, you know?”

You move forward until you’re close enough to Steven that you can slide a hand down his arm, your fingers brushing up against his wrist, and he takes a half-step closer, until his shoulder is pressing against yours.

“It’s a bit silly, you know? There was no need to go out of his way like this. I would have been none the wiser,” Steven says, smiling even as there’s a glossy sheen behind his eyes.

You know exactly what Steven means, and he’s right. It is silly. It’s also kind and unexpected and unnecessary and entirely Marc. 

The easy option would have been to just leave a dead fish in the tank. It would have been even easier to not send handwritten postcards to him at all. In fact, the easiest option of all for Marc was to dump everything on Steven from the very beginning. It would have saved him a lot of headaches. 

There was never any need for Marc to take all of this upon himself, carrying every burden come their way in order to spare Steven any hardships. No need for him to shoulder the entire weight of their world by himself. He didn't have to struggle alone, surrounded by millions of strangers in every corner of the world. And yet, you can’t imagine him doing otherwise.

This is quintessentially Marc, and as infuriating as it can be, you can’t fault him for it. 

“Marc has his own ideas about protecting the people in his life,” you say, as you lace your fingers with Steven's, squeezing him tightly under your palm, “Even if it’s at the expense of his own well being.” 

The two of you stand there in silence, interrupted only by the quiet bubbling noise coming from the tank. Surrounded by postcards written by a man who's not here, but whose presence can be felt in every nook and cranny of your life together. 

Marc isn’t here, yet reminders of him are constant and inescapable. His absence is like an aching tooth that you can’t seem to keep from prodding with your tongue, a missing stair that you can’t stop tripping over.

He's everywhere you look. 

Every cluttered pile of books that Steven leaves behind him when you stay in on a Saturday night, every messy detail makes you think of how Marc would want to rip out his hair, itching to clean if he saw the mess. 

You're reminded of Marc on every crowded tube you take on your morning commute. Haunted by the phantom weight of his protective hand on the small of your back, the comforting pressure of Marc's arms wrapped around you to keep you steady. 

Every morning when you walk into your office and catch a faint whiff of coffee from your cubicle, that fissure in your chest cracks open each time as you’re transported to the memory of waking up to the sight of Marc sitting next to you, drinking the coffee you make him with a stoic face. 

Then there is the biggest reminder of all: the face of the man you love. 

It's etched in the dark brown of Steven’s eyes as he smiles up at you and calls you 'love'. In the sharp line of his nose as he presses the blunt tip to your cheekbone to kiss you good morning. 

Perhaps you ought to be able to ignore it and pretend that this is fine. 

After all, you love Steven, and it'd be easy enough to pretend that you and Steven have reached your happily ever after. That this—your life together, just him and you, the way you’ve been since he’s returned—is your new normal, and that all of it is fine. 

...But it's not fine. 

You miss Marc. 

You miss waking up to him lingering in the kitchen as he tidies up. Miss his half-smiles and wry jokes. Miss the comfort of his presence just by him being near you. 

Somewhere along the line, in those quiet mornings together, Marc carved out a space for himself inside you. With him gone, it’s left a gaping wound in the middle of your torso, and you are haemorrhaging out without him.

Marc is important to Steven. He’s important to you too, you can admit that now. And you need to admit it to Steven as well. 

You squeeze down firmly on Steven's hand, closing your eyes shut for a brief second as you take a deep breath to prepare yourself. 

"Steven,” you start, “we... um... we need to talk.” 

You cringe the moment the words leave your mouth, wishing you could take them back and try again. The last conversation you started this way didn’t start or end well and sent Steven into a tailspin. 

Two seconds in, and you’re already messing this up. That has got to be some kind of a record. 

To your surprise, Steven doesn't panic. Instead his expression softens, and he smiles indulgently at you. 

"Yes, I think that's a good idea, love. There's a bit of an elephant in the room, isn’t there? A Marc-shaped elephant, yeah?” 

His blunt cheekiness cuts through any lingering hesitance in you, and you nod.

“I miss him,” you admit, before trailing off, “I…”  

You don't know how to say this. 

There are no words in the dictionary that can adequately convey what you’re feeling. How you can love Steven so much, be so deliriously happy to be with him, but still feel like there are sharp jagged pieces cutting large holes into you because Marc isn't there. 

“I know,” Steven says, filling the silence for you, “You care about him quite a bit, don’t you?”

You search his eyes for a moment, trying to get a sense of his emotional reaction to guide you. 

There’s nothing but kindness and understanding  in his gaze. Those warm brown eyes that seem to see right through you and accept you just as you are, and it helps to steady you.

“It’s all right, love,” he continues softly and gives your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze like he’s trying to emphasise to you that it truly is. “I care about Marc a great deal as well. The big grump grows on you, doesn’t he?”  

And that’s just Steven, isn’t it? Never shying away from a tough truth. 

You're so grateful to him for it.

You want to tell him how thankful you are to him for seeing you—for knowing you, even when you don't entirely know yourself. How safe you feel with him, even with this. How it’s his support that’s given you the courage to finally admit the truth to yourself... and to him as well.

“I think I...” 

You look down at your intertwined hands, his thumb petting the back of your knuckles. 

“I think I love him,” you finally say. 

It’s terrifying to admit out loud, but it’s a relief too.

You draw your eyes up to meet Steven’s, half-expecting to see hurt or pain blossoming, but there’s none.  You squeeze his palm gently in gratitude before you cup your hand over his soft cheek. 

“And I still love you as well. So much.”

“I thought that might be the case, love,” Steven says, and slides one hand into the pockets of his trousers, as he looks at you earnestly, “and that leaves you with a bit of a predicament, yeah?”

You nod. The fingers of your free hand are itching to fiddle with your wrist watch, so you curl them into a tight fist by your side. 

“I would never choose Marc over you, but I just– I–” you cut yourself off, shaking your head hopelessly because you’re not quite sure what you even want to suggest here. 

You’re so fucking nervous, nervous that you might be fucking up everything between you and Steven with this wishy-washy confession of yours. But before you spiral, Steven comes to your rescue.  

“So, I’m thinking, right,” Steven begins, “And– And stop me if this isn’t what you want, but what if–” 

He pauses, holding up both his hands in an invitation for you to interrupt at any time. 

“Look, nothing about our situation is normal. In fact, it’s rather abnormal, isn’t it?—and I reckon that means it has to be an inordinate solution.” 

Steven looks at you expectantly, but you have no idea what he’s trying to suggest, and it must show on your face because he continues, “So what if we all… um… well. You don’t have to choose, I guess is what I’m saying.”

Your mouth works, opening and closing as you struggle to get out any words in reply, and Steven presses on.

“Marc’s spent more than half his life shielding me from all the bad stuff that's come our way, trying to handle it all on his own. He doesn't believe that he deserves the good stuff. That he deserves love. But he does. Maybe more than anyone. So I think you should tell him how you feel, and we’ll see if we can't figure something out, all three of us.”

“You– You mean…”  you flounder, trying to find a delicate way to make sure he’s saying what you think he’s saying. But there is no such thing in these surreal circumstances. “You’re talking about my having a relationship with Marc as well as one with you? About… sharing me? …With him?”

He gives you a small awkward smile, as he shoves his fidgeting hands back down in his pockets like he’s suddenly grown self-conscious about how distracting they are. “Only if you’re okay with that, of course.”

“And you’re okay with that? You won't be jealous?”

“Jealous? …of Marc?” he begins incredulously, eyes popping wide open as if that option had never even occurred to him. Then he stops and really seems to ponder the question. 

“You know, I'm not. Maybe I should be, but… How can I be? After all, I’m a part of him, aren’t I? And he's part of me. The fact that you love him… Well, in some odd way it makes me feel like you... you just love all of me.”

Time seems to slow around you as you process what Steven’s just told you, because that’s it. That’s just what it is. 

You try to swallow down the lump that has suddenly formed in your throat, but you can’t. His words shift something inside you, the tangled knot of guilt and confusion and conflicted loyalties that have lived inside you for so long unravels, leaving behind a clearer understanding of your own complicated feelings for both Marc and Steven.

You love Steven.

You love Marc.

You love both of them and all of them, and it doesn’t have to compete with each other. 

Once again you just marvel at Steven. At his way of cutting through your confusion, situational complexities, and convoluted emotions to put into words the truth you’ve struggled to understand, even as you’ve lived through it and felt it with every inch of you.  All of it summarised in that simple sentiment.  

“I do. I really do, Steven. You and Marc. All of you.” You breathe out, the tension going out of you until your spine softens, fully relaxes for the first time in a long time. 

Steven is still smiling at you, his smile spreading wider and more assured the longer he looks at you, and it makes the tentative love and joy welling up in your chest overflow until you can barely stand upright. 

“You’re really all right with this?” you ask one last time, and you notice that your voice is a little bit shaky because you feel like you are vibrating out of your skin. 

“I wouldn’t have suggested it, if it wasn’t something I wanted, love,” Steven says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre as he wraps his arm around the small of your back pressing you tight to him.  “But only if it’s something you want too.” 

“Yes, it... It is. Very much so,” you confirm, and you can’t hold back your ever-growing smile. 

“Well then,” Steven says, pressing a small kiss to the side of your head, “I guess all that's left now is to tell Marc and convince him to come back home.” 

You

Ratatouille is on channel 4 today and 

...And what? 

You pause to sprinkle fish food into the Gus twins’ tank, as you stare blankly at the drafted message, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Today is the first time you’ve woken up without Steven in bed with you since his return. It means Marc has gone off somewhere again. 

You chew on your inner cheek as you reread the half-finished message. It's a daily habit you have developed in Marc's absence. You text him throughout the day to share about frivolous ongoings in your life, the way you used to when you’d be sitting across him at breakfast. 

There’s never any response. The only proof you have that he hasn't changed his number or blocked yours is the two little ticks that eventually appear, indicating that he's read the messages.

Dragging your finger down the screen, you scroll up through the message log, embarrassed at the number of unanswered messages you’ve left.

He really is planning to ignore you and stay gone forever, isn't he?

Your thumb drags over to the delete button instead, painstakingly erasing your message. 

Deep down, you've always known these texts were just an excuse for you to hang onto the last tether you felt you had tying you to Marc, and you're sick of nattering on inanely, making cheeky jokes to camouflage what you really wanted to tell him.

It’s time to say what you mean. What you’ve always meant. The truth hidden between every line of every message you’ve sent him. 

You

I miss you

Please come back

You hit send before you can overthink it, then stare at the screen, blood rushing to your head as your heart starts to palpitate in your chest. A million thoughts race in your head, as you start to imagine Marc on the other end reading this. Will he be annoyed? Angry? Will he finally block your number so he doesn’t have to receive your spam messages at all hours of the day? 

You glance at the ottoman in front of you, about to set down the phone to keep it away from yourself, when from the corner of your eye you see that grey tick transforms into blue. 

Marc's read it. He’s read it.

Your heart drums painfully sharp tucked beneath your ribs. Your fingers grip the cold body of your phone. 

Marc's there. On the other side of the screen right now. A phone call away. 

That’s what Steven said wasn’t it? That all you two needed to do now, was to tell Marc how you feel and convince him to come home. 

That is, assuming he even wants to come home.  Maybe he just doesn’t feel the same about you. 

Still, your fingers slide open your contacts, scrolling down until you reach Marc's name and press call. 

It rings out, loud and oppressive. Louder still when you press it against your ear. 

Once.

You should’ve had a glass of wine before you did this.

Twice. 

He probably won't answer. Why would he? You shouldn't have even bothered. If he wanted to speak to you, he wouldn’t have been avoiding you in the first place. 

Three times. 

The monotonous ringing continues, and your heart seems to sink in your chest, dropping, heavy with disappointment into the pit of your stomach. He's not going to pick up.

Four. 

This is desperate and sad. You’re chasing after a man who keeps running from you. You're just going to leave yourself miserable. 

Five. 

This is so stupid. You should just hang up. 

Six–click. 

You jolt upright on the sofa. Every hair on the nape of your neck electrified. Legs tense and straining as you sit entirely still like you've encountered a deer in the forest and you're too afraid to move a muscle in case you might spook it away. 

Did the line disconnect? Or did he–

You yank the phone away from your ear to stare at the screen. It's blank and black save for Marc's name and a timer, numbers counting up to indicate the duration of the call. 

Marc picked up. Marc actually...

Your mouth is dry as you raise the phone to your ear again.

“He-hello? Marc?” 

There's no answer.  

“Marc? Are you there?” 

Still nothing. The other end of the line is dead quiet. Maybe it’s a bad connection.

“Can you hear me?” you try again. 

Maybe no one is there. Maybe Marc bumped it with his elbow. Maybe you’re just talking to yourself like a crazy woman. 

“Marc, I–” 

You lower the phone and check the screen again. The call is still going, but the silence on the line reveals nothing. You have no way of knowing if Marc is listening or not.

But if he is... 

If he is, this might be your best chance—perhaps your only chance—to speak to him. Compared to that, what does it matter if you feel a little bit silly? 

“So uhm... I-I don't know if you had a chance to read my message—the latest one, I mean. I know I've been sending you a lot of them. But if you're there? If you can hear me, Marc, I just– I mean it, you know? I miss you. Steven misses you too. We both do.”

It's still quiet.

Even if Marc is there on the other end of the line, it's quite obvious by now that he has no intention of answering you. Stubborn as he is, you know that no matter what you say, he's not going to acknowledge that he's there. 

If he’s even there.

You press on. 

“I don't know why you think you need to stay away, or why Steven and I wouldn't want you here. Because, yes, you're grumpy and your default setting is a resting bitch face, and yes, you can be a right arse sometimes, but…” You find yourself smiling, imagining the way his eyebrow would rise if you were saying this to his face.

“You've always taken care of Steven and... and of me too”. 

Your throat constricts with a thick lump that you try, but can’t seem to, swallow away. You think of all the small but many, many things Marc has done for you since he entered your life. The way he’s learned to prepare your tea just the way you like it. The way he always pulls your quilts to your shoulders while you’re asleep so you don’t freeze in the middle of the night. 

“I don't know if I've ever thanked you before. I guess I just– uhm. I want to thank you, you know? Thank you for cooking me breakfast every morning and for putting out my clothes for me so I didn’t have to search for them.” 

You think of the way he had held you while you were crying like a child on his living room floor. How firmly he’d cradled you in his arms, and how he didn’t let go, even when you got snot all over his shirt. 

“Thank you for comforting me when I was crying after everything with Steven.” There’s a stinging sensation behind your eyes, and you wipe at them with the back of your hand, trying to ignore that it comes away wet, as you continue to speak. 

“And for letting me stay over that night. I know you’re not usually a touchy-feely person, and it... It meant a lot to me.” 

You swear you can feel the phantom weight of his comforting hand on the small of your back, and you close your eyes as you imagine that he’s next to you. 

You think of all the ways he’s pushed himself for you. Hugging you when you were crying, cooking you breakfast when you were hungry, befriending you because you asked him to for Steven’s sake—how every step forward in your relationship has been because he was trying to meet someone else's needs: Steven’s. Yours. 

And now he’s removing himself from the picture, thinking he’s fulfilling another need. 

“I know I said I wanted a simple, normal life with Steven, but I didn't– That didn't mean I wanted you gone, Marc,” you continue, as you tug at your overlong sleeve and wipe at your wet cheeks. 

“You said you were going to fix everything, that we were better off without you, but how can anything be 'fixed' when I miss you so bloody much!? How can things be better without you here when I'm–” Your voice breaks, and you swallow around the thickness in your throat, trying to sniffle down the clump that won’t go away. 

“God, I hope you're listening, and I'm not just pouring my heart out to your back pocket.” 

You let out a wet laugh at the idea, and then inhale deeply, doing your best to steady your voice. 

“I'm– I’m in love with you, Marc.”

You're not sure if it's just your over-active imagination inventing things out of pure wish fulfilment, but you think perhaps you hear a quick intake of breath on the other end. 

“Steven knows. I still love him too, of course, but I told him how I feel about you, and he's okay with it. And if– well, if you ever wanted there to be something more between us, he'd be okay with that too. We don't have to be together that way if you don't want to, of course, but I just…” 

Your throat feels tight again, threatening to close up, and you have to stop for a moment, suck in a soggy breath and try to get yourself under control before you can continue. 

“I love you, Marc,” you say again, barely breathing for several seconds as you strain your ears, hoping to hear something, anything from the other line. But this time there's not even a hint of sound.

You desperately want to know what he’s thinking. Feeling. Is he shocked? Angry? Puzzled? What does he look like on the other end of the line? 

Are his brows furrowed into that pinched expression his face makes when he’s emotionally overwhelmed? If he were here, would he be looking at you with that same pained expression that night he put you in a taxi home? Or would he lean in and–

You don’t know. 

And you’d give up the whole world to know what Marc is feeling in this moment. Give anything to have him back here with you so you could see it for yourself. 

"Do you hear me, you stubborn, infuriating man?” you’re practically yelling now. “I love you! So there's not going to be any happily ever after for me unless you come back. You don’t have to love me the same way. It doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be. But I need you here. Please. I miss you. Steven misses you. Please just come back.”

You close your eyes again, holding your breath. Hoping against hope that he’ll answer you or give you some sign that he’s heard you at the very least. But there’s nothing. 

And you have nothing more left to say to try to convince him. 

“Goodnight, Marc.”

Then you end the call. 

~ Continue ~

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

#oscar isaac #moon knight #marvel #marvel mcu #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant #marc spector #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fic #moon knight fanfiction #jake lockley #steven grant x you #marc spector x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you #cici writes #💌 asks

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Charm Me

Draco let out a groaning sort of hum as he rolled over in bed, stretching and tensing his body before letting his muscles all go loose and easy again. He let his body conform to Harry’s, soaked up his warmth for a long moment and reveled in the feeling of Harry’s fingers trailing over his back, just slipping under his shirt when he reached the bottom.

“I should do something,” he mumbled, mouth moving against Harry’s T-shirt where his lips were pressed to his chest.

“Like what?” Harry asked, brushing a kiss over the top of Draco’s head.

He shrugged, “get out of bed, make you breakfast, charm you into staying,” he said lightly.

But Harry, as he always seemed to, saw past the words. With a hum he slid down lower in bed so the two of them were face to face. Draco blinked and looked away, fixing his eyes on Harry’s collarbone instead because he couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Hey,” Harry murmured, soft and warm, full of that easy affection that Harry seemed to constantly exude until Draco was seeping in it.

“Hi,” he whispered back.

Harry brought Draco’s knuckles to his lips, “I love you.”

Draco’s heart stuttered in his chest, it wasn’t always hard to hear those words but sometimes it felt like something stabbing him in the heart, constricting his lungs until he couldn’t breathe quite right.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured, his voice warm like honey in Draco’s veins, “that’s hard today, isn’t it?”

He nodded once, felt his eyes stinging, which was utterly ridiculous. “I don’t know why-”

“It’s alright,” Harry said, tugging the blankets up a little higher.

“I just,” he blew out a breath, “I don’t understand. I know you love me but I feel like there must be something I have to do in order to keep it, and if you’d just tell me what it was, I could keep doing it. And then I could keep you,” he added, throat raw.

Harry was quiet for a long moment, “can you keep being a little grumpy in the mornings? That little pout you have before you put on your mask for the day really does it for me,” he said. “Could you keep talking with your hands when you get excited?” He continued. “Oh, and that little happy dance you do when you eat food that you enjoy, or that little exhale after you swallow a warm drink.”

“Harry-” he huffed, trying to interrupt and protest.

“Oh,” Harry said, “I know. Could you keep getting lost to the world when you read a good book? Can you keep talking to every animal that you see?” He grinned, “will you keep singing to the plants in your house and dancing while you clean?”

“That was one time,” he protested with a laugh.

His smile slipped a little as he looked at him more seriously, “will you keep loving me on my bad days, when I don’t remember who I am?” he asked softly. “Could you keep treating me like I’m a person, like I’m breakable and not something indestructible? Would you tell me I’m enough when the world says I’m not?”

“Harry,” he whispered, cupping the other man’s cheek. “Yes, of course.”

“Perfect,” he said, turning his face to press a kiss to Draco’s palm. “Then you can keep me.”

“Just like that?” he laughed.

“Just like that.” Harry replied. “What would you say to ordering takeaway and eating it in bed?”

He nodded, burying his face against Harry’s neck and trying to let himself believe that he got to have this.

“You don’t have to believe me,” Harry said softly like he’d heard Draco’s thoughts. “It’s okay to feel a little scared,” he added. “We’ve got our whole lives together. I’m happy to prove it when it’s hard to believe.”

And even though Draco didn’t know quite what to say in the moment, he was more than content to let Harry spend the rest of his life loving him and to love Harry in return.

————————

Written for the @hdcandyheartsfest prompt ‘charm me’

#drarry #love #soft #fluff #hdcandyheartsfest #reassurance #established relationships #tenderness #gentleness

[onskepa]

Okay, hear me out but imagine Lo'ak having a human as his girlfriend. She is much taller than most people at the lab and when she uses her avatar she is even much taller than Lo'ak, even taller than most adults in the clan. I just imagine Y/n teasing the life out of Lo'ak for him being shorter than her. I have a feeling that Lo'ak would sometimes get grumpy cause of it and try to walk away and then Y/n casually grabs him by the shoulder, turns him around and throws him over her shoulder while laughing, while Lo'ak keeps yelling at her to put him down and Y/n simply laughs. 🥺🤣

Hi! sorry for the long wait on this one! But here is your fic! this one was fun to write! Enjoy!

------------

Pup and Tsawl

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK?!" lo'ak was cussing far more than usual. Pacing back and forth as his siblings laugh at him like it was peak comedy for them.

Standing in front of them all was his one and only lover, who is standing in her avatar body proudly at 8'3 tall. Easily over towering lo'ak. He refuses to admit it but it was clear to see that his pride was hurt. In his lover's human body, she stood at 6'5, which makes her taller than any other human.

Her human height wasn't a problem, lo'ak was still taller than her, and enjoy her being smaller. But now he secretly hates his girlfriend having a na'vi body. She quickly earned the name Tsawl.

Norm suspected the height genes must have been so strong it carried to her avatar. Now her height wasn't abnormal, but she was 14, and was the height of a fully grown female na'vi. Young na'vi around her age would be in the height between kiri and lo'ak. So, it was a surprise for everyone.

So while lo'ak sulked and groaned, Tsawl was happy, not just because she gets to fully experience the world of Pandora, but to enjoy her teasing of lo'ak. While she would giving him loving pet names, one became a reoccurring name, pup. Lo'ak doesn't enjoy the name but doesn't stop his lover from calling him that.

What hurts lo'ak's pride the most is just how EASY his girlfriend can pick him up! "its like holding spider!" she would say. His siblings would take the joy from all the teasing, and to add more salt to the wound, Tsawl would pick him up and SPIN HIM AROUND LIKE SOME BABY!!

Not only did his parent see that, but the entire village saw it. Lo'ak had enough and left to mellow in his own thoughts. Tsawl did regret what she did and would find him to apologize.

"I'm sorry I did that lo'ak...I got too caught up in the fun to not realize your feelings" she said sincerely. Lo'ak understood but explained how it did stab his pride. So after forgiving, would things shift a bit. Just a bit.

Tsawl would make it clear that ONLY SHE can call lo'ak "pup" and no one else. If they do, they get their ass, human or na'vi she doesn't care. And as time went on, lo'ak got used to the height thing, and would even come to secretly enjoy being embraced by his lover and not the other way around.

One thing lo'ak would chose to die rather than admit, is that he likes being the little spoon a bit too much. Tsawl might have the idea but wont say anything as means to preserve her man's pride.

Neteyam and spider still tease about the height thing but if falls on deaf's ears now.

Tsawl = big in size

pup = small in size

And that is it for this one! was short but sweet! until next time!

#avatar #na'vi x reader #na'vi avatar #avatar the way of water #na'vi x human #lo'ak #avatar 2 #lo'ak x fem!reader #lo'ak x you #lo'ak te suli tsyeyk'itan #lo'ak fluff #lo'ak x reader #lo'ak x y/n #lo'ak x human reader

[virgilisspidey]

2012 Head canon time getting sick/injured edition

The turtle that rarely ever gets sick is Mikey so he usually ends up being the one that interacts with the sick person the most. He's actually follows orders well and is sort of like a little assistant to Splinter whenever one of the brothers are sick and has memorised the amount of medicine they need and somehow knows when they need to take it without a timer or a clock, which is helpful when they have to check on a concussed person from time to time. When he does get sick he mostly couldn't tell until someone touches him and realizes. His brothers absolutely fear him because he can down the nastiest medicines ever because of the fact that he loves to put a lot of things in his mouth. Strong stomach, this guy. He is unfortunately, the easiest to bruise and the guy that gets the most head injuries for some reason.

Donnie is ill equipped when it comes to taking care of a sick person. Like sure he can treat your wounds but if you're sick and emotional from the fever he does not know what to do. When he does get sick he's the type to stand up and do his work anyway so one of his brothers usually has to watch over him to make sure he doesn't escape to try and do more work than actually resting. Leo watching over him works wonders. Hard to get him to eat stuff because he feels like he would throw up but he drinks... like a lot. He gets the most minor injuries like burns and cuts from the lab so he's used to it by now and patches it up himself. He gets less injuries on the field because he usually hangs back before acting to assess the situation/his brothers are watching his back because he's their greatest asset when it comes to infiltration.

Raph gets a lot of injuries on the field because he's the first one to attack and the first one to defend. He doesn't usually get sick much but when he does he just becomes super grumpy but super clingy. They usually just hand him Spike/Chompy and they'll be fine but if he manages to grab you and falls asleep you're not getting away. The victims always end up being Mikey and Leo, with Donnie just refusing to go to Raph whenever he's sick because of that. Sneezes so freaking loud like a literal ACHOO ya know. If Donnie claims he would hurl whenever he's sick Raph WILL actually hurl, he has the weakest stomach out of all the brothers and always have a trashbin right next to him and a bottle of water to rinse the awful taste out. Is always cold.

Leo tends to not realize he's injured sometimes. He's not the "i don't want to be a burden... i need to hide and treat these injuries myself", nah, that's Donnie, he just is so dense when it comes to his lack of self preservation coupled with the adrenaline he will not notice a stab wound until someone points it out. He gets really grumpy and wants to recover quickly, which sometimes results into him getting upset that he can't be any help. AND OH BOY THIS GUY IS UNLUCKY, when he gets sick he gets VERY sick. His immune system dipped out the moment he got sick, like, vro is the most dramatic sick mofo ever and for a good reason because this poor guy is absolutely suffering he's not being dramatic. And even with the knowledge that he gets sick easier and far harsher he still takes care of his sick brothers even though they would have to take care of him in turn if he catches whatever his brothers are carrying. Splinter is the only one who can tell him to stop doing that he will get sick and even then he still peeks at the door wanting to help. He insists he's fine when he's sick... trust that he is not.

#tmnt 2012 #tmnt 2012 headcanons

[lilliths-httyd-blog]

Since I got injected today:

RttE Cast thoughts on needles (Modern AU):

Hiccup: Doesn't like getting injected all that much but considers it more of an inconvenience than anything else. He's sorta used to it given he's, you know, an amputee who has required much medical attention over the years.

Astrid: Would never EVER admit to being scared of them, but she is. It's actually a fear that developed as she got older; she used to take a needle no problem but now after spending time with a dragon covered in spines and watching her hurt people with them, she's a little more sketched out about having her body pierced in general. She refuses to even get earrings and would probably throw up if she actually watched the needle go into her body.

Fishlegs: Doesn't like them, gets nervous when he has to have injections, but does it anyway because he's a science nerd and is just as fascinated by biology as he is nervous about needles. He finds himself watching each and every time and is usually okay afterwards.

Snotlout: Cries at the thought of them. Fishlegs has to hold his hand each time. Refuses to even look at his arm afterwards until he has a plaster on because if he sees blood he will faint.

Tuffnut: Dude accidentally stabs himself with needles regularly due to his love of sewing so prior to actually being injected he doesn't really give a shit. Every single time, however, the fact that he can't jerk away and has to sit there and take the pain gets to him and he will end up shedding a few tears maybe 50% of the time.

Ruffnut: Constantly makes jokes "I've been stabbed" style, can take a needle like a pro. Would probably do it for fun tbh (she actually does, she gets the flu jab every year just for shits and giggles).

Heather: Doesn't mind needles all that much. She dislikes the pain but doesn't complain. Probably because she has many, many piercings (nothing can top the pain of self-piercing your ears when you were 12).

Dagur: Similar reaction to Snotlout except he tries his best to take it like a pro because he'd feel like he'd be letting himself down if he didn't - usually cries afterwards and Hiccup has to comfort him but he's okay 👍 just a little fazed 🤏no problems here 🥲👌

Viggo pre-burn scar: Isn't scared of them necessarily, but the thought does make his stomach churn a bit and he's usually quite fussy about the pain afterwards because he's just like that. He finds fun in bothering Ryker and demanding cold packs to ease the aching.

Viggo post-burn scar: The most apathetic reaction to needles you ever did see. Could not give a single fuck. A bit grumpy about the inconvenience and having to be in even more pain than usual for a while (chronic pain) but never lets on in front of anyone. He'll rant about it to Hiccup sometimes after the fact (who is very much in agreement with him about it all).

#httyd #race to the edge #httyd headcanon #httyd modern au #rtte #tw: needles #needles

[k-marzolf]

Lavender.

A Drabble set in the Monsters in the Dark universe.

Warnings; grumpy!Billy, dark themes, and hints of abuse from reader’s father, kissing, fem!reader.

@idaofinfinity @e-dubbc11 @rosaleenablack @firexfate

Monsters in the Dark Masterlist

x

You came in excitedly, seeing Billy waiting at the door for you, arms crossed, “Billy—“

“It’s been raining cats and dogs outside. Where the fuck were you?” He growled, his worry translating to anger. He was not at all used to worrying after people.

You pulled off your coat. You were soaked through, dripping on the floor. “Getting you this,” you said softly, unconcerned with his temper, soft with him as always, pulling out a bundle of lavender. “It promotes sleep, if put under your pillows.” You said.

Fuck. You were so sweet.

His cheeks flushed, and he looked down. Your socks and everything were soaked from the downpour.

“C’mon.” He said shortly, making you follow him down the hall and into his room. Billy knew you were disorganized and had forgotten to do your laundry.

He pulled out a sweater and some sweatpants. “Put these on,” he said, before leaving the room.

While he waited his heart raced. He wasn’t sleeping well at all lately, and being a Marine he’d learned to go on very little sleep. But sometimes he wanted to sleep without the nightmares.

He usually ended up sitting up in the chair by the window, drinking whiskey.

But you’d thought of him, and spent your own money on him. It made him ache.

He peeked in, and saw your back as you put his sweater on. You were scarred terribly, it looked like you’d been stabbed. You turned as you pulled it down, smiling at him.

“Who hurt you?” Billy asked, trying not to be so aggressive, but whoever hurt you that badly deserved pain beyond comparison.

He helped you tie his sweatpants, they were falling off your hips, you watched him frowning, and wished to smooth the lines on his face.

You leaned against Billy after he’d tied them for you, “My daddy didn’t like me. But—“ you dug around in your bag and pulled out some chamomile tea. “This can help with sleep, too.” You said, watching his expression.

He was stunned. Most people weren’t thoughtful, they didn’t think of Billy. But you’d always thought of him, always wanting to take care of him, or dote on him.

But he hated your father for the scarring on you, he could only imagine what he’d done to make those scars.

Billy’s fingers cupped the back of your neck, pressing a kiss to your mouth, making you press closer eagerly.

“Thank you, sweet pea.” He said, hoarsely.

You smiled softly, “I can make you the tea before bed.” You said against his mouth.

“I’d like that.” He said, surprised by how violently he’d been taken with you, how badly he wanted you. You weren’t what he usually went for.

But when your eyes lit up, because he was going to let you make him some tea, he felt possessive of you. He kissed you again, and you encouraged him with your sweet sounds, the way your fingers tangled in his hair.

He was well and truly fucked.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader