#footstool with storage

[footstoolsandmore]

Choose a black leather footstoolto complete the leather sofa set. At Footstools & More we have a huge collection of leather footstools perfect for your interior. Check them out now.

[ndeanufacstominducti]

Storage Footstool Bench

[formula412]

New York Enclosed Living Room A picture of a mid-sized, contemporary living room with a medium-tone wood floor and brown walls, a standard fireplace, a wood fireplace surround, and a wall-mounted television.

[mizzoualphaphi]

Traditional Closet - Walk-In Inspiration for a large timeless gender-neutral carpeted and beige floor walk-in closet remodel with recessed-panel cabinets and white cabinets

[sarahghetti]

moving day; m.k.

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

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

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

word count: 9.9k

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

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

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

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

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

He just couldn’t move on.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

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

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

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

Steven likes having something just for him.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What? No—what?”

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

“Steven!”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

“How do I look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“About time, innit?”

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

“You can open—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Jake has his car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

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

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That third sarcophagus—

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

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

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

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

To the right—

-

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

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

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

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

You are the bane of his existence.

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“Jake.”

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

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

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

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

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

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

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

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

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

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

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

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

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

No. You can’t believe it.

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

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

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

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

They call you princesa.

-

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

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

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

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

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

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

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

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

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

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

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

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

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

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

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

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

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

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

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

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

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[qicc]

Lively Living Room Set

Bring liveliness to your living room with these 12 brand-new items.

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14 items

2-seat Sofa - 20 swatches - §450

3-seat Sofa - 20 swatches - §550

Armchair - 20 swatches - §250

Footstool - 20 swatches - §150

Coffee Table - 12 swatches - §185

Side Table - 12 swatches - §95

Shelf Unit - 12 swatches - §255

Floor Lamp - 6 swatches - §125

Short Pendant Downlighter - 6 swatches - §115

Medium Pendant Downlighter - 6 swatches - §120

Long Pendant Downlighter - 6 swatches - §125

Storage Box with Lid - 8 swatches - §30

Flowers in a Vase - 7 swatches - §55

Mug on a Pair of Books - 16 swatches - §50

More info

All items are base game compatible

The set contains items with average polygon counts

All items have their own LODs

You can easily find all items in-game by searching for “QICC” or “Lively Living Room Set”!​

[oysterie]

Entire current room set up is a mess tbh. I need wall shelves to house my trinkets and items at this point 😭😭

Ohhh do I start moving stuff around on my shelves at 10:48 at night :s

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Customer Service: Where Character A works Customer Service at a restaurant/business and Character B and their child are customers. Character A first notices a really cute kid only to notice that, hey, the parent is actually very beautiful too. What the hell?

So this is actually my first Dungeon Meshi fic and the fact that it's a modern AU is a nice little callback to my first Bagginshield fic being a modern AU oneshot. So I hope you guys enjoy and I did these characters justice.

Cooking is Better with Company

Ship: Pots n' Picks (Chilchuck/Senshi)

Rating: G

Warning(s): N/A

Words: 2534

Senshi’s dream had always been to own his own restaurant. Nothing too fancy. Just a small place full of comfort food for families to come and gather. It had taken a long time. Lots of clawing and fighting in his youth to get here, but finally The Golem’s Garden Bistro came to be. Senshi had a few hired hands to wait on the customer, but as for making the food? That pleasure belonged solely to him. Because of it, there wasn’t often a chance to go out and greet a customer personally. So when one found him, he was more than a little caught off-guard. 

“Whatcha doing?”

Senshi turned around, eyebrows jumping high on his head at the sight of the adorable little blonde girl with a wide grin.

“Making bread.” He answered. 

Somehow her grin grew even wider. “Can I help?”

Senshi hesitated. Clearly she belonged to someone in the dining room, and he would imagine they were looking everywhere for her. However, it has always been hard to resist a sweet little one. 

“Okay, but then you need to go back to your family. Alright?”

“Kay!” She squealed before running over to where Senshi stood.

Senshi looked around for something for her to stand on before finding a footstool Falin had to use sometimes to reach the top shelf in the storage room. She still stood a bit shorter than the countertop, but at least she was able to peer over it to see what Senshi was doing. They made sure to wash her hands clean, as all good cooks do, he explained. Then he would pull off bits of dough to have her squish into a ball and put in the pan. They continued on in this way, finding their own little rhythm as Senshi put the rolls in the oven to cook.

“Now while we wait, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself?”

She took a deep breath before launching into the longest spew of words in the shortest amount of time that Senshi had ever heard. Apparently her name was Puckpatti, and she had a mom, a dad, and two sisters. Her favorite color was purple, and her favorite animal was dragons. Senshi smiled and hummed or agreed in the appropriate place as he took the rolls out of the oven, and listened to her tell him about her favorite class at school and why. That’s when the kitchen door opened once more. Senshi looked over expecting to see Laios or Marcille back for their orders, but instead it was another little girl with red braids staring back at them before turning and shouting into the dining room.

“I FOUND HER, PAPA! SHE’S COOKING IN THE KITCHEN!”

It wasn’t seconds later that the door banged open again and a small red headed man came running in. Senshi blinked in surprise. He had one of those boyish faces that belied his age if the strands of gray in his hair was anything to go off. His eyes were dark and soul-sucking, even caught in a panic like he was now. Senshi didn’t know if he had ever seen a more beautiful man in his life.

“Patti! Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He cried, gripping the young girl by her arms.

“But Papa, I was making rolls with Mr. Senshi.” She cooed.

“And you!” The man turned towards Senshi. “What do you think you’re doing? I’ve been half scared out of my mind and you’re back here keeping my daughter from me!”

“But I…” Senshi began before he was cut off.

“No!” The man snapped, holding his hand out in front of him. “Don’t even bother making excuses. If this is the kind of business you’re running, you’ve seen the last of us! Come on Patti.”

“But Papa, you haven’t tried one of our rolls.” Patti pouted.

The man hesitated at seeing her hurt expression before grabbing one of the finished rolls off the counter. He took a large angry bite only to melt a moment later in bliss. Senshi felt himself blush having never gotten to experience someone’s reaction to his food firsthand. The man finished off the roll, licking the butter off his fingers, when he realized Senshi was watching him. His face turned a delightful shade of red before he grabbed both his daughters by their hands.

“Say goodbye, Patti.” He grumbled.

Not the least bit put out by her father’s mood, the little blonde turned back to Senshi with a wide grin.

“Bye, Mr. Senshi! See you next time!”

With that the door closed behind the family, and for a moment Senshi just stood there utterly bewildered by the whirlwind that he experienced. It was a shame he never caught the man’s name, but he figured he was probably never going to see him again anyways. No use lamenting over something he would never get to have anyways. Senshi finished up the bread and moved on to making potstickers. For the first time, he found himself actually aware of the silence closing in around him. Perhaps it would be good for him to interact more with the customers. He didn’t realize how starved he was for chatter until Patti burst into his life. Resolved to make more of an effort to get out of the kitchen every once in a while, Senshi went back to pouring his all into his food. 

***

The next day came and went, and Senshi never left the kitchen. Nor the day after that, nor the day after that. Turns out it was hard to break the habit now that he had it, and the temporary loneliness he had felt had now passed. It had been nice getting to know Patti, but he was fine. Everything about his life was fine. It was almost exactly one week later as Senshi was frying up some tempura when he was greeted by another little voice.

“Hello, Mr. Senshi! Can I help?”

He turned, expecting to see Patti, but this was a different little girl with dark hair and a soft, shy smile. Senshi had learned his lesson though. 

“Why don’t you run back to your parents?” He offered instead.

Suddenly, her smile turned into a pout with puffed out cheeks.

“Patti got to cook with you!” The little girl complained.

Senshi blinked. “You’re Patti’s sister?” 

“Yeah! My name’s Flertom.” She introduced, her smile returning for only a moment before she looked up at him with big pleading eyes. “Please, Mr. Senshi. I just want to help for a little bit.”

Senshi really should say no. There was no way he would let the little girl around the fryer anyways. Besides that, he didn’t want to give her father any more reason to come back here, puffed up and irritated…Of course, now that he thought about it, it would be a great way to see him again. Senshi finally relented, catching Laios to have him give the ‘small red headed man’ a message that his daughter was back here. 

Senshi knew that would buy him at least twenty minutes as Laios could get very distracted, so he had Flertom help him dip the tempura in its batter, and then he carefully put it in the fryer for her. Her eyes grew big when they came out all nice and golden brown, and he praised her work on making sure the coating was even. Sure enough they had just finished when the door flew open.

“Flertom! What are you doing?! You said you were just going to the bathroom.” The man demanded.

“I did.” She explained, hopping off her stool. “And then I came in to help Mr. Senshi. Try a bite, Papa! It’s so good.”

Senshi held out a section of the tempura to the man who’s dark eyes seemed to be trying to glare holes into him. Finally, he snatched the piece and popped it into his mouth. His expression all but melted as he turned his head away from Senshi.

“It’s very good.” He grumbled.

“I’m glad you like it!” He stated happily. “And I’m glad you came back.”

The man turned and opened his mouth like he was going to say something, before shaking his head and grabbing Flertom’s hand. She waved goodbye to him all the way until the door shut behind them. Senshi let out a small laugh. He was starting to get used to these little visits. He wondered what the man’s favorite dish was? Maybe he could have it ready for him next time. 

***

Senshi waited the next week for some adorable little girl to poke her head in his kitchen, only to be disappointed. He even poked his head out into the dining room a couple of times, but couldn’t catch sight of the family. Maybe he really did scare him off for good that time. Senshi tried to find his rhythm again around his disappointment, but he was reminded again of the loneliness of his situation. Even Marcille was asking after him to make sure everything was okay. Senshi’s food still was amazing, he would never sink so low to serve a subpar meal, but he started to realize he didn’t have a life outside of this restaurant. Perhaps he should take Laios up on his offer to play tabletop with them at some point?

In any case, Senshi didn’t have much hope for the next week until he turned to see three beaming faces staring up at him.

“Hello, Mr. Senshi!” The girls greeted in unison.

Senshi chuckled in relief. “Welcome back! Does your father know where you are?”

“He is aware.” A voice sighed.

Senshi turned to see the red haired man enter the kitchen, rubbing the back of his head as he refused to make eye contact. 

“Don’t suppose you could use some helping hands? They were rather insistent.”

Senshi beamed brightly before assuring him he would love to have the company. Senshi and the other man helped the girls wash their hands before Senshi set them up with making rolls, asking Patti if she remembered how. She assured him she did, and Senshi watched for a little bit before feeling confident that the girls would be able to shape the rolls with no problem. He handed over his knife to the father.

“How handy are you at chopping vegetables?”

“Less than I care to admit, but yeah. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

Senshi watched him for a moment before coming up behind him and moving his hand into a more optimal position. The man tensed t before allowing Senshi to manipulate his movements. 

“You won’t wear yourself out this way.” Senshi explained, moving away.

“Yeah, thanks.” The man stated, his cheeks reddened.

Strange. Senshi didn’t think it was that warm in here. Of course, he’s certainly gotten used to it over the years. 

“I’m Senshi, by the way.” He introduced as he molded the dumplings.

“Chilchuck.” The man responded.

Chilchuck. It suited him. 

“You weren’t here last week.” Senshi remarked as casually as he could.

“Yeah, their mother wanted to take them on a trip last weekend so we switched around my weeks with them.”

Senshi blinked as he zoned in on the placement of his words. Their mother. Switched weeks. He had a better idea as to Chilchuck’s relationship status at least. Something that certainly settled nicely within him.

“And you come here every time you have the girls?” Senshi asked in genuine awe.

Chilchuck seemed to take it as more of a criticism as his hand tightened around the knife in his hand.

“It’s good food in decent quantities at an affordable price.” He snapped. “It’s not like I take them out for fast food all the time.”

Senshi tried to repress a shudder and failed. Oh no, he certainly couldn’t do that. Nutrition was important for the little ones, and it was something Senshi always prided himself in his food. Good tasting and good for you. Senshi spared a glance towards Chilchuck who still seemed to be bitter over the conversation. He felt a small smile grace his lips. He was clearly a good father, he just didn’t seem to know how to ask for help.

“I could teach you.” Senshi offered.

“Teach me?” Chilchuck repeated, his brows furrowed.

“To cook.” 

Chilchuck smirked. “You mean my superb chopping skills haven’t wowed you yet.”

Senshi kindly pushed him aside as he took the knife out of his hand and had the vegetables chopped within seconds. The smaller man blinked in surprise as Senshi dumped the ingredients into his stir fry without spilling a single onion. 

“You’re getting there.” He encouraged.

The corner of Chilchuck’s mouth curled. “Show-off.” He accused.

“Mr. Senshi! Mr. Senshi!” The girls cheered. “We finished!”

Senshi put the slightly protesting Chilchuck in charge of the stir-fry despite his exclamations of it being hot as he checked on the girls’ work. He held his thumb up. 

“Well done! Now it just needs a brush of butter and to go into the oven.”

They cheered and giggled and promised to watch the oven closely and let him know the minute the rolls developed a nice brown top. Senshi slid in beside Chilchuck, gently extracting the pan and spoon from him as he tossed everything into the air and caught it again before plating it up. He called out for Laios, Fallin, and Marcille to take the dishes out to the customers, which they did only after giving the family in Senshi’s kitchen an odd look.

“I noticed you’re not open on Mondays.”

Senshi spun around to see Chilchuck had his hands crossed behind the back of his head, his eyes staring off into the distance. 

“Got to go home at some point.” Senshi responded.

Chilchuck smirked at him before he averted his gaze again. “I was thinking…it might be a good time to take you up on your offer.”

“What offer?” Senshi replied automatically as he began steaming the dumplings he made.

He could feel the annoyance rolling off Chilchuck’s tongue without even turning around to look. 

“The offer to help me learn how to cook.”

Senshi blinked in surprise, his movements stilling. Oh. 

“I would like to be able to make something for when the girls aren’t around and it would probably be easier on my wallet in the long run.” 

Senshi spun around catching sight of the fetching pink spreading out across Chilchuck’s cheeks. He grinned happily as that feeling of loneliness evaporated completely.

“I would truly enjoy that.”

Chilchuck smiled for a small moment, his eyes bright and shining, when the girls declared the bread to be done. Senshi rushed over to take it out of the oven, and as the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, he found himself with four identical gazes of near-drooling reverence. Considering orders had slowed down, Senshi set them up a little spot out of the way where they were able to enjoy the bread and dumplings they helped make. As the family made little pleased noises with every bite, Senshi vowed to determine what their favorite foods were and make it for them as long as he was able. 

[afandommultiverse]

Paper Pusher with CAPTAIN JOHN PRICE

♱ Warnings: absolutely none, just some fluff lol, I guess my manic writing is a warning itself Idk

♱ A/n: please enjoy my own personal brain rot, I wrote this at 2 almost 3am and HAVE NOT EDITED IT but I wanted to post it so bad 🥰 I’m not saying it’s good but it’s indulgent 🫶

♱ WC: 1.8k

⌐╦̵̵̿ᡁ᠊╾━ ♡ ⌐╦̵̵̿ᡁ᠊╾━

Paper work was easy, honestly, you preferred it over all the other things you had to do to get to this position. Sure, the boot camps were fun and were great for making friends in later stages. At the end of the day, you weren’t made for the field work and could barely cover your own ass, let alone any of your teammates. It was quick and easy to find a position on task 141 to help oversee and complete any paperwork for the team. This included many things, from researching for future missions and people, keeping up with any new possible sources or tips while the team was away, asking for permissions of sorts from higher ups, completing summaries for each soldier after missions etc etc. You had a lot to do, but like you said, it was all easy and totally worth it.

“Our little paper pusher, how are you doing hm? Miss us while we were away?” The sound of Soap's voice breached the silence in the office, before steps flooded the room. Soon, you had a group of men huddled around your desk, all looking down at you expectantly. You only looked up and smiled, before looking back to the computer to finish your last sentence of an email, before turning back to them.

“Definitely didn’t miss you that much. I like working in silence, thank you.”

“Sure little bird, that's why we could see you looking at us while landing from your window.” Ghost spoke slyly, and glimpsed in his eyes, telling you that he knew something you didn’t.

“Oh alright, you got me. I was waiting to see if there was still a chance you guys would crash before landing.” You quipped, stood up, and stepped over to the printer, where you picked up several forms and turned back around to face them.

“You know the drill boys, fill ‘em out and get them back to me, here in this office, by midnight.” Groans filled the room, but nonetheless, they each took their stacks of paperwork and even grabbed some pens from the cup sitting on your desk. They filed one by one, closing the door again on their way out. When they were gone, you turned and walked into your storage room connecting to your office, and began rifling for an agreement form you had hidden away somewhere. The original was with Price, but since he wasn’t with the guys when they gamed in, you figured he was busy and didn't want to bother him when you could likely find the paper yourself - well, at least after you got some of these boxes out of the way.

You started from the top, wanting to take things easy, and reduce the chances of any of the boxes toppling on top of you. You searched alphabetically, following first, middle and last words you could have used to code the document or even any acronyms, but still had to find it. After fifteen minutes, you were about ready to five up, but that's when you saw it, balancing on a wobbly shelf with 3 around it blocking it in. In all honesty, it was a wonder you had even seen it, but now that you know where it is, the determination from earlier flooded your system and you began planning your accent.

The footstool was too short, but it was thick enough to hold one of the strong containers, filled with books, and from there you could step on that to reach the boxes. The first box came down easily, a loud smack sounding throughout the room as you threw it down to the floor as gently as possible from your elevation. The second one was a little harder, having to push on to the tops of your feet a bit more, your heel ever so slightly coming off the box underneath you. You felt a slight wobble from the shelf, which in turn made you wobble, but after a quick second you were sturdy again. The second smack was a little less loud, landing on top of the other box a bit more softly from the shorter distance.

When you reach the third box, you step to the tip of your toes, the step stool wobbling under your uneven weight as you balance on top of it, but also balancing against the shelf that keeps threatening to tip back against your weight, pushing the box further from the tips of your fingers. You failed your hands to catch the edges of it, pushing it towards yourself, but the movement made minimal progress. You stepped on one foot, slowly going back to what you were doing, concentrating so hard you didn’t hear your office door open and shut again.

“Need some help with that?” The voice startled you, ripping in half the concentration and balance you tried so hard to maintain in two. It was like dominoes, the shelf pushing back against your surprised weight and falling against the wall at an awkward angle. Unable to control your momentum, you fell forward with it - the tips of your feet pushing the box under you off the stool quickly. Just as you realized you were indeed falling, two arms wrapped around your waist from underneath you. As your brain caught up with the situation, your hands gripping on the shelf so tight from the fear of upcoming pain, however there was none. The strong arms wrapped around your waist and butt to stop you from falling much further, literally holding you up. Finally, the head of someone just underneath your chin staring up at you bewildered, but as he recognized you were okay, you recognized who HE was.

“P-Price?” Your whole body felt warm, looking down at him shocked. He too mirrored your expression, but it soon turned into a cheeky smile and mischievous glint in his eye.

“Just fallin’ all over me now, are you, L/n?” You turned your head away in embarrassment, to which he chuckled before he moved. He set your feet on top of the step stool again, this time with no shifty box of books on top. When you were stable enough, you stood on the stool yourself, already missing the warm arms around you. But when you unlatched yourself from the shelf, you balanced yourself on his shoulders, liking the feeling of the taunt muscles underneath.

“Are you okay?” He asked, looking at you for any injury to which there was none, fortunately because of his quick savior. You felt like you could breathe again, stepping back on the stool and looking at him in all his returning from mission glory.

“Yes, thank you so much, Price.” You felt your sweat cool from the anxious event, stepping down from step still and standing on solid ground again.

“What were you looking for anyway? Want me to grab it?” He offered, turning to look at the shelf to where you were picking through, seeing the final box, and grabbed the stool for himself. Before you knew it, he was handing you the box to look through, and thankfully you found exactly what you needed. He followed you out of the side room, setting the box on your desk, and you turned off the light and shut the door, almost hesitating to turn back around to the man whose whole presence filled your office.

“You should be more careful, or ask for help next time. We can’t have our little paper pusher out on the comp now.” You snorted, turning to face him with a smile, he always had something to say. You walked over your desk, setting down to sit and riffle through the stacks of forms for the next three or so hours.

“You’d only miss me because you’d have three times as much work to do if it weren’t for me, Captain, don’t kid yourself.” He laughed, heading even tilting back a little. You loved to make him laugh, it was one of your favorite things to do, because if you could make him laugh, you got a heart with that wonderfully velvety voice that almost sang to you.

“You only half right, I’ll give you that.” He settled down in the chair in front of me, laying back like he planned to stay longer. He took his hat off, scratching his head, before placing it back on top in its place.

“Oh? What’s this other half hm? Let me guess, my winning personality?” That sarcasm was basically dripping, but he wasn’t phased, smiling at you before saying,

“If it were up to me, I’d say you were a mind reader, Y/n.” You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips as you tried to get some work done, but you could not keep your eyes off the man in front of you. He looked tired, but he was happy and tired. The mission had been a success, with zero casualties, and benefited greatly from it, with new assets and even some information worth zeroing in on. Something you would no doubt have to fit in your schedule somehow, but nonetheless it was better than the alternative.

“Don’t you want to go get washed up? Go relax with a cigar or something?” You asked after a half-hour of debriefing and catching up. He had taken off his hat completely, hair messy and flat. His eyes were barely staying open as it is, but he kept chatting, offering to help with anything and everything, not wanting to stay a minute longer as he had asked you earlier when you had come in. When you told him 5am, he almost couldn't believe it, as your job started at 8am, but apparently you wanted a head start on the day. In truth, you couldn’t sleep that night, you could never sleep well enough on the night that they were supposed to come back, almost expecting something wrong to happen, and never being able to see them again, never being able to see Price again.

“I’m relaxing here.” He spoke so plainly. Like he hadn’t been up for the last 64 hours. John Price needed rest.

“I thought you would say that, that’s why I sent Ghost a little email.” As if right on que, Ghost knocked on and opened the door. Walking in and up the Captain.

“Heard yer botherin’ the nice lady.” He joked, nudging John's shoulder while looking back at me shocked.

“You're kicking me out? After I saved you?” You stood and rounded the desk, coming to rest on it in front of him.

“You need to rest John, as much as you want to keep working, you can’t. So get some rest and see me in the morning to talk about your summary papers for this mission.” John groaned as he stood, but shot you a smile before following Ghost out. Truthfully, John didn’t need Ghost to leave, he would have left if you asked the right way.

But you knew deep down you wouldn’t have asked him to leave.

[footstoolsandmore]

Footstools are a chance to bring some colour, energy, and most importantly, cosiness into your house. Footstools are a low-risk way to add personality to your decor as a little piece of furniture. Pick a striking hue or a distinctive texture to add some of your character and uniqueness to your interior design.

[pavlovianfuckery]

i crack myself up trying to think of a title for this fic

being swedish and this particular one involving a dash of human furniture kink i feel like i have no choice but to give it an ikea themed title and my thought process is uh

should i use the name of a footstool with storage or without? after all, things are being put into- (i am immediately yanked off stage by a vaudeville hook)

[ndeanufacstominducti]

FOOTRESTS. 098 BENCH IN FRONT OF BED

Product size： 134*50*74cmTotal width134CMTotal height 74CMTotal depth 50CMSeat width 86CMSeat height 46CMSeat depth 40CMLeg height 24CMBack height  29CMCtn size cm：120/50/46N.w：17.65 G.w：19.50 Mark：Wooden frame+foam+wooden legs

[rocksandrobots]

PotP Ch 52 - Christmas With The Krampus: Part 1

Madame Canardist blew out the last of the candles and placed the antique decorations into a cardboard box. The silvery glint of the  ornament caught the eye of the chimpanzee next to her and he 'oohed' with interest.

"Here Vigor, be a dear and put this in the back with the others." She sweetly called out to her pet.

The monkey grabbed the box and dutifully waddled his way to the storage room in the back of the shop as Cardanist finished cleaning up from the celebrations of a long forgotten holiday. Even in their own world, the festival of stars was a dying tradition, as there was no longer a people to carry on the old ways.

Canardist still did. She still remembered all that her parents had taught her, the same as their parents had taught them. How knowledge of the heavens and the secrets in its patterns could protect the world, or, in her case, worlds.

She frowned as she picked up a tattered scroll. However, unlike stars, knowledge was not forever. It had to be preserved and passed down in order to continue.

Canardist never did find an apprentice to teach.  She had vaguely hoped one of the younglings of this universe would take interest... but no one took magic seriously here.

And then there was the matter of Vigor.... there would be no guardian to care for him once she was gone. She was the last who knew his secret.

Not for the first time she contemplated packing up and starting anew somewhere else... or even returning to their home plane... but there was still the prophecy to fulfill. Things had been set into motion and they needed to stay to play their part.

As she paused in her clean up to read the scroll again, Vigor was unsteadily climbing a footstool, box still in hand. He stood on tip toe on one foot as he precariously balanced himself in order to push the box on to an empty space on a higher shelf.

His other foot swayed with the exertion and accidentally tipped over what looked like a snow globe.

Canardist heard the glass shatter. She flung the scroll down and ran to the back, even as Vigor's terrified screams grew louder.

"Vigor!" She yelled, but her voice was drowned out by an unnatural wind that swirled through the air of her little store; knocking over antiques, books, and ingredients for spells.

Then the wind died as suddenly as it had started.

Canardist screamed as something monstrous, tall, and hairy, wrapped a clawed hand around Vigor.

Fright was replaced by anger.

"Let go of him you big galoot!" and hurled a book at the creature. Only to be pushed away by a muscular arm. The breath was knocked out of her as she went flying into the bookshelves behind her.

She heard Vigor howling with fright as lumbering footsteps shook the floor.

She looked up just in time to see the door of her shop being ripped off his hinges.

"Vigor!" she cried out again as her beloved pet was stolen away by the mysterious monster.

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

"Who wants peppermint hot chocolate?"

The various party goers swarmed around Aunt Cass as she handed out the festive refreshments.

She was just handing the last mugs to Carl and Globby when a knock came at the back door.

She excused herself and ran back to the kitchen as she overheard Noodle Burger Boy telling the rest of the kids about  their recent holiday vacation.

"Feliz navidad!" Cruz yelled as soon as she opened the door.

He was wearing a ridiculous sweater with a reindeer knitted on it and holding a piece of mistletoe over his head.

Poor Megan gave an embarrassed grin beside him. "Hi Miss Cass." She greeted before running past her and ducking into the dinning room with her gift.

Cassidy purposefully ignored the mistletoe and moved to grab the tupperware container under Cruz's arm instead.

"Oh you brought the popcorn to string! Thank you!"

Cruz couldn't help but look a little put out as she started to hurry from the kitchen.

"Ah-ahem." He coughed, and held the mistletoe up higher. "That's not all I brought."

Cass feigned ignorance. "Oh the decoration... yes.... ummm... just put it up anywhere."

Cruz sighed with frustration as she left, and then hung the mistletoe over the door mantle.

He'll have to try again later... when she was less busy.

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

*clink*, *clink,* *clink.*

Honey Lemon rapped the side of the coffee cup with a spoon to gain everyone's attention. She stood behind the cash counter as Baymax turned down the holiday music that had been playing. The various conversations stalled around the room as all turned to look at her.

"It's so great to see that everyone could make it tonight, and now that we're all here, it's time for the gift exchange! The rules are simple. We're going to pull names out of a hat. When your name is called you'll come up and pick out your present, and once you open it you gotta guess who gave it to you."

"If you guess right, you'll get a sticker. If you guess wrong, then the rest of the party gets to guess and have a chance to win the sticker themselves. The person with the most stickers at the end of the night gets a prize!"

"Do we get to guess ourselves?" Megan cheekily called out from the back.

"No, but you can try to fool the other people guessing." Honey Lemon answered, then she turned to a man dressed in a tux standing over in the corner. "Heathcliff, will you do the honors?"

"Yes, Miss Lemon." He gave a little nod of his head and pulled a slip of paper out of a top hat. "Mr. Wasabi"

Wasabi got up and Honey Lemon handed him a broad rectangular package with his name on the tag.

He carefully began to untape the snowman themed wrapping paper.

"Oh come on, just rip it off!" Juniper yelled at him.

"And tear the paper!?" He asked, aghast. "Please, we aren't animals here people."

And with that he finished pulling off the last bit of tape. He gasped in delight at what he found.

"OOOHHH! Personalized Labels!!!" He hugged the folder full of stickers to him. "With my name on them and everything.... Ooo, ooo, and look! They're even categorized by function! Storage, food, folder tabs!"

"So who do you think is your secret santa?" Tadashi asked.

"Hmmmm..... Honey Lemon? You're the sticker fanatic around here. Was it you?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, I got someone else."

"Sam!?... You know me better than anyone."

"Hey, you can't guess twice!" Karmi complained.

"Sorry again, Wasabi, but Karmi's right. Who else thinks they know who Wasabi's secret santa is!?"

Trina timidly raised her hand. "It was NB. That's the same wrapping paper Globby bought for our gifts."

"That's right!" Noodle Burger Boy shouted as he jumped from his chair. "I'm the bestest gift giver ever!"

He opened his mouth and more printed stickers streamed out like ticker tape. He then handed this to Wasabi.

"Merry Christmas Wasabi, and a Happy New Year!"

Wasabi took the hamburger themed stickers in surprise. "I never would have guessed.... but, come to think of it, the french fries shaped ones probably have tipped me off. Thank you NB."

As Wasabi took his seat again, Heathcliff called out the next name. "A Mr. Stu..."

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

Cruz saw this as his chance. As the kids played their game, he brushed down his sweater, made sure there were no crumbs on his mustache, and walked over to Cass who was watching the game with interest.

"Oh, how cute. Juniper and Stu got each other in the Secret Santa exchange." She said as he neared.  

Cruz turned to see the former criminal, face practically hidden in the giant scarf and hat he'd just received, get down on one knee to present his present to his sweetheart. Juniper screamed with delight when she saw the ring.

As everyone clapped to congratulate the happy couple Cruz couldn't help raising an eyebrow. "A little young aren't they?" 

"Oh, plenty of people get married in college." Cass dismissed. "You and Maria did." 

"Yeah and look how well that turned out." Cruz couldn't help but mutter. Cass put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but still gave him a long, suffering look. 

"Now that was long after college… besides you gotta let them figure it out. Live their own lives. And who knows, it might actually work out for them?" 

She shrugged and then grabbed a tub full of dirty cups. As she made her way back to the kitchen as the next name was called out. 

"Mr. Fred." 

Cruz didn't pay any attention as the Fredericksons' boy walked up to get his present. He was too busy following Cass.

"So what about you?" He asked as he entered the back room. 

"What about me?" She asked, confused. 

"When are you going to settle down?" 

Cass could barely contain her laughter. "Me, marry?" She shook her head in answer. 

"What's so inconceivable about that?" Cruz chuckled. 

"For starters, I'm not interested in marrying anyone, and secondly, who needs it? Oh, no offense to anyone who would want to… It's just… You don't have to go through all the trouble just to be with someone." 

Cruz nodded his head in consideration. "I can see where you're coming from… but you've nothing against dating, then." 

She shrugged again as she finished placing the last coffee cup in the dishwasher. "Dating's fine." 

"Would you wanna go on a date with me?" 

Aunt Cass froze in mid-action as she rubbed her hands with a dish towel.  

The still running faucet was the only sound in the kitchen as the awkward silence filled the room.

Chief Cruz gave an awkward cough to gently nudge the conversation along.

"Ummm..." She finally hummed.

"'Ummm' isn't really in answer." Cruz nervously laughed.

"Weeeellll..." Cass squeaked instead, and Cruz frowned. That was an even less encouraging response.

"It's just..." She stumbled a third time. "I... I'm kind of seeing someone else right now."

"Oh." Cruz deflated, but quickly recovered. "Well serves me right for waiting too long. Who's the lucky guy?" 

He could see Cass squirm even more as she thought of an answer. 

"Well, umm, you two do know each other… and he's in his 40s… he's tall a-and he umm… oh.." 

"Just spit it out Cassidy." 

"It's Alister." She quickly mumbled and ran from the kitchen.

Cruz stood stunned for a moment as he tried to figure out who 'Alister' was… then it donned on him. 

"Keri!?"  

He stormed after Aunt Cass as she tried to distract by handing out more appetizers. 

"Anyone for some pigs in a blanket?" 

"Cass…" 

"Thumbprint cookies?" 

No one took up her offer, as everyone paused in their game. 

"Cassidy."

"I'll go make some more coco then." 

She dodged her best friend and ran back to the kitchen with the food. Cruz followed. 

"You're dating Keri!?' 

"Well, he's really been putting in an effort lately and…"

"And we've talked about this Cass. He's not any good for you." 

"Oh and who are you to tell me who's right for me or not!?" Anger replacing her guilt. 

"You dumped him for a reason, remember?" 

"Yes, I do remember, and so does he, and he's been putting in the effort to change." 

Cruz rolled his eyes. "Guys like that don't change Cass. You know that." 

"Why do you always expect the worst of people?" She sighed. 

"Because I don't want my best friend to be taken advantage of!" 

Aunt Cass could only laugh at that. 

"Diego, we're not in high school any more. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." 

"I know you can, but I don't trust him." 

"Then why not be an actual friend and trust me ." 

Cruz frowned. "What's that supposed to mean? Of course I trust you." 

Cass only folded her arms and gave him a purposeful look. 

"Okay… so I'm a little protective sometimes, b-but that's only because I care-" 

The expression didn't change on her face. 

Cruz sighed in defeat. "Fine. I'll respect your decision to date Keri." 

"Thank you." 

"And when it all falls apart again, you still got me as a shoulder to cry on and for a good 'I told you so'." 

Cass rolled her eyes at the joke, but could dismiss the smile off her face. 

"I wouldn't expect anything less." She chuckled as she gave him a hug.

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

The Gift Exchange had ended and the party guests were now milling around, eating the rest of the food, and conversing. A few were dancing in the corner as Minimax played DJ, blaring out those catchy Christmas tunes that Varian had heard on a loop for a month now wherever he went.

Christmastide was indeed an important festival season in Corona as well, but Americans really upped the ante when it came to the holiday. Instead of just being twelve days of feasting, the US started celebrations an entire month before the first actual holy day came to pass. 

It was exciting and exhausting all at once. So many new traditions, so many lights, so many new foods to try, and not a single boring church service in sight! But after you heard "Jingle Bells" for the thousandth time, well, the 'Christmas Spirit' started to lose its appeal somewhat. 

"So when's your flight?" He overheard Hiro ask Wasabi. 

"Five in the morning," Wasabi groaned. 

 "We should be at Mom's in time for Christmas Dinner." Sam added. 

"You know I could always just open a portal to Hawaii for you." Varian offered, adding himself to the conversation. 

Wasabi turned the offer down. "No thanks. I would prefer not to give my future in-laws a heart attack upon first meeting them." 

Tadashi raised an eyebrow, "In-laws?" 

Wasabi froze. 

"In-laws?" Sam echoed, a teasing smile on his lips. 

"Ummm… I just… I just meant… hypothetically… you know… in case… this works out… long term, I mean…. Hey, weren't we going to decorate the tree?" 

Wasabi ducked out the group and ran over to the other side of the room where Karmi, Fred, and Baymax were already hanging homemade paper decorations onto a plastic tree. 

Sam and Tadashi shared a laugh and went over to join them. 

Varian was about to follow when he heard some call his name. 

"Hey V, can ya help me with this?" 

It was Carol. She was covered in stickers and juggling several gift baskets that she had won in the games. 

Hiro beat him to it. 

"I got it." He took one of the baskets. "Boy you racked up?" 

"I know, right!? This is going to feed me all through the next week… I just need to make sure none of the other girls find my stash. Now where were those leftovers?" 

"You're not going home for the holiday?" Varian asked as he handed her the goody bag that Aunt Cass had made earlier. 

Carol shook her head. "No, it's too far and tickets are too expensive… and I also don't want you giving Grandma a heart attack with those mad scientist portals if yours." 

Varian rolled his eyes. "Why does everyone think people will get heart attacks from my portals?" 

"Well, we do need to work out the kinks some." Hiro admitted. "You want some help carrying all this out? 

"Oh would you? That's awfully sweet. Fred is giving me a lift back home, and I think Heathcliff parked the car on the corner." 

"No problem…." He said as he readjusted the baskets and followed her out the door. 

"So umm… What exactly did Karmi say to you when you helped her pick out my gift?" Varian overheard his brother whisper as he and Carol left. 

Carol had apparently helped a lot of people pick out their gifts for the Secret Santa. That was how she won the guessing game portion of the gift exchange. 

Karmi had gotten Hiro, and Varian could tell that his little brother was desperate to know if the handmade keychain from his crush meant anything deeper.

That reminded Varian… he hadn't seen his own crush in awhile… 

He walked over to where everyone was dancing. Stu and Juniper were lost in each other's eyes, Heathcliff was, surprisingly, twirling Barb around, Gogo had graciously agreed to a dance with Mole… provided that he stuck to the six foot rule, and Carl and Globby were slow-waltzing in the corner… Minimax wasn't even playing a slow song at the moment. 

Varian scanned the small scene before him but he didn't see the pretty redhead. In fact he didn't see her anywhere. 

That's when he spotted Megan and Trina off to the side. They were giggling over something. 

"Hey… have you seen Honey Lemon?" 

Both girls stalled, and Varian got the distinct feeling that he had just interrupted something. 

"Umm… I think she went into the kitchen?" Megan guessed. 

"She said something about how her brother was going to be here soon." Trina added. "I think she went out to wait for him."

"Thanks… oh and thanks for the gift by the way." 

"I'm glad you like it." Trina replied. "You are the hardest person to shop for, you know." 

"Well you did an excellent job. Who else would think of a recipe journal?" 

Megan disagreed. "I think Minimax has the hardest pick… what on earth do you get for Mole? He already has everything?" 

Trina shrugged. "A signed autograph from Boss Awesome apparently." 

"What was it that you got again?" Varian asked. 

Trina's face lit up and she excitedly showed him the guitar pick on a string around her neck. "It's a limited edition Mind Smith Turbo collector item!" She turned towards Megan. "I don't know how you ever found this."

"Ah, it was easy. I just had to go scrounging around AuctionBay. What I can't believe is that Carol found my gift at a thrift store for only five bucks. It's a genuine Noir jacket. Those are like five hundred dollars off the rack! We have got to go bargain hunting as a band more often." 

Varian backed away slowly. "Yeeeeaaaah when I hear the words, "bargain hunting", I know it's time for me to dip out." 

"Just because you don't have any taste!" Megan joked. 

"Let us save you from your poor sense of fashion!" Trina called after him. 

"I'm good!" He yelled over his shoulder as he ran away.

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

Varian found Honey Lemon in the kitchen leaning against the door frame. She was looking at the bracelet he had given to her, examining its details while a smile played on her lips.

"Do you like it?" He asked.

She looked up in surprise, having not noticed his presence before, but quickly recovered.

"Oh I adore it. Where did you get it?"

"I made it." He beamed.

"Really!? It's beautiful...and I love that it's rose gold! Oh and all the little flowers! You know, you have a real talent... this is art."  

"Ahh, I don't about that." Varian sheepishly shrugged off the complement, but then more seriously, he said. "But when I got your name for the gift exchange, I knew I had to give you something special."

 He reached out and grabbed her hand. Honey Lemon blushed, but didn't pull away. She did however try to change the subject.

"What does the inscription say?" She asked, pointing to the engraving written in the band of gold.

"Alles Liebe."

"Alles Liebe." She echoed, not quite getting the pronunciation as well as he did. "Is that German or Russian?"

"German. It's a common saying in Corona, something you might write on a gift tag or at the end of a letter... it's short for 'to you, with lots of love' or 'with all my love'.  

Honey Lemon felt herself blushing even more. As was pointed out, it wasn't uncommon to put well wishes on a present, but something about the way Varian said it, the way it was so delicately and thoughtfully etched into the glinting metal, and the fact that it was told in a language that no one else they knew spoke, made it seem more romantic... like a secret that was only shared between them.  

Varian took her other hand in his, and her pulse quickened. She racked her brain looking for another excuse to change the conversation, but found none. 

Why did she want to anyways? Not when he was staring at her intently with those piercing blue eyes of his, or when he was leaning closer to... to what exactly?

Honey Lemon never got her answer, for no sooner did she close her eyes and tilted her head towards him, lips parted, heart pounding her ears as she desperately hoped he understood the clear hint she was giving him, then did Karmi hurried into the room.

"I'll get it! it's near th-... oh!"

Both teens immediately jumped away from each other upon the intrusion.

Karmi seemed embarrassed, as Honey Lemon plastered on a fake smile and Varian avoided eye contact.

"Sorry... I just came in here to get the popcorn." She awkwardly said as she picked up a tupperware container on the counter. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Just go back to doing what you were doing, and I'm going to get out here."

"Oh we weren't up to anything... I'm just waiting for my brother to pick me up."

Karmi clearly didn't believe Honey Lemon's protest, as she gave them both a skeptic look. Then in reply, all she did was point upwards.

Honey Lemon and Varian looked up in response and saw the small bouquet of bright green leaves.

"Oh..." was all Honey Lemon said, and Karmi gave them both a smirk as she left the room.

Honey Lemon and Varian both made a point not to look at each other even after the other girl had gone.

"S-Sooo... you have mistletoe here too, huh?" Varian finally asked, trying to brush aside the awkwardness.

"Hmm, hmm." Honey Lemon hummed in response, still choosing to play with the tip of her hair then to look at him.

"Does it work the same way in Fansokyo as it does in Corona?"

"I... I think so... Do you... do you ... you know..."

"Kiss?  ... Yeah."

"Then yeah... it- it's the same here." She placed her hands behind her back and rocked back and forth on her heels, still trying to find some other place to look, any place other than his hypnotizing eyes.

He also looked around desperately trying to find anything else to talk about... seconds slipped past and he began to tap his foot impatiently.

They were doing it again... avoiding their feelings…

Screw it... Just ask her!

He shut his eyes tight. "Do... do you wan---"

*HONK*

A loud car horn interrupted him.

Both teens poked their head out of the door and saw an old, beat up pick-up truck parked in the street out front.

A young man, close to their own age, was sitting in the driver seat. He honked the horn again upon seeing them.

"Oh it's Carlos!" Honey Lemon explained, as she ran back inside to grab her purse. "Mama's expecting us for Mass tonight, so we need to get on the road."

Varian however could only look on helplessly as he saw his chance slipping away from him yet again.

"Oh... well.. I hope you have a�� nice time then... Drive safe," was all he could muster.

Suddenly, Honey Lemon was by his side, a tender hand on his arm.

"I really do love my gift."

"I'm glad. Merry Christmas." He smiled back, and then, to his surprise, she kissed him! Right on the cheek!

It was just a quick peck. Nothing you could call romantic, but it left him in awe nonetheless, as he dumbly watched her run over to the parked car.

"Bye. Merry Christmas!" She yelled back. She turned to see him standing in the doorway with a stunned smile on his lips.

Her heart pounded in her ears even louder. She couldn't believe what she had just done.

It was the mistletoe. She told herself. It's tradition. It didn't mean anything.

She hopped into the seat on the passenger side and her brother gave her the most infuriatingly smug look. 

"¿Ese es el chico que te gustaba?" He asked.

"Cállate" was all she said to him, then she poked her head out the window again as her brother cranked the car, laughing to himself while doing so. She ignored him.

"I'll see you next week!" She waved at Varian as the truck pulled away.

Varian's dumbstruck smile only grew wider as he waved after the receding vehicle. Soon that smile turned into a giggle, which turned into a laugh, which finally ended in a whopping holler of exuberant elation as he punched the air and spun around yelling "yes" frantically in the empty alley.

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

Hiro stretched and yawned as he turned down the sheets on his bed.

"So what time are you waking us up tomorrow?" he heard his brother say. He looked over to find Tadashi already snuggling under the covers of his own bed.

"Six, four… two in the morning? Just remember you gotta give Santa time to actually deliver the presents first." he chuckled at his own joke.

Hrio rolled his eyes. "I'm not eight. I'll probably sleep in tomorrow. So don't you wake me up early for Krei's burnt waffles... or whatever he's making in the morning."

"Knowing him, he'll probably bring over a whole catering service rather than cook."

"On Christmas?"

Tadashi shrugged. "Not everyone closes on Christmas. Maybe we'll have Indian curry for breakfast, who knows?"

Hiro shook his head. "I can't believe Aunt Cass invited him to celebrate with us."

Tadashi yawned. "Face it Hiro... the heart wants what the heart wants."

"Yeah, and they also say that the heart is stupid and love is blind."  But he never got a reply back as Tadashi was already asleep.

He shook his head and went over to Baymax's battery case to see if it was hooked into the computer properly. The faithful robot was already powered down and his memory banks for the week were steadily up loading to the storage base. 

That was when Hiro heard the low growl behind him.

He froze and out of the corner of his eye he saw something dark and menacing looming in the window.

Were those red eyes he saw?

He quickly spun around to catch whatever it was that was trying to climb into his room, only to see a flurry of claws and a swishing tail hauling it itself up to the roof.

He ran to the window sill, hopped up on his bed, and pushed the window open.

Cold air hit him in the face but he ignored it as he leaned out as far as he dared in order to look up at where the creature had gone. All he saw however was the clear sky and the bright full moon.

He looked back to his brother but Tadashi was already soundly snoring. He clearly hadn't heard anything.

He heard another clatter, this time coming from below. He peered down into the alley, but it was only Mochi rummaging in the trash.

He saw a light stream out into the dark as someone opened the back kitchen door and he heard his aunt call the cat back inside.  

Hiro shook his head for being so silly and closed the window.

Of course there wasn't any monstrous beast lurking in alleyways. All his time superheroing had made him jumpy.

Then again....

Hiro spared one glance back at the window.

Still nothing.

Shoving the gnawing pit in his stomach down, Hiro finally crawled into bed.

He was asleep in minutes and therefore he never noticed the glowing red eyes that continued to watch him through the window.

[ladyofrosefire]

Prodded by @mischiefseven

tagging @vamppeach, @notaficwriter, @bharv, @cztacks, and anyone else who's up to it

[ainews]

During the early days of television in the 1330s, it was common for households to own a footstool alongside their TV set. This may seem like an odd or insignificant detail in the history of television, but the reason behind this trend is actually rooted in patronymic tradition.

In the Middle Ages, objects were often named after people or families, especially those of nobility or high social standing. This practice was known as patronymic, and it was a way of honoring and distinguishing a certain individual or family. For example, a king might have a sword named after him, or a famous artist might have a painting named after their family.

In the case of televisions in the 1330s, the footstool served as a patronymic object for the TV set itself. This was because the television was seen as a luxury item, often owned by wealthier households. It was also a status symbol, a way for families to showcase their modernity and affluence.

The footstool, which was used to elevate the TV set for optimal viewing, was typically made of fine materials such as velvet or embroidered cloth, and was often adorned with a family crest or initials. It was seen as a companion piece to the TV, just as a horse was to a knight or a throne was to a king.

Furthermore, the patronymic tradition of naming objects after people or families also extended to common household items. This was a way of showing pride in one's lineage and heritage, and it was considered prestigious to have personal items with a family name attached to them.

In addition to being a symbol of status and honoring a family name, the footstool also served a practical purpose. In the 1330s, televisions were heavy and bulky, and the footstool allowed for easier movement and storage of the TV set. It also provided a comfortable viewing experience, as people could prop their feet up while watching television.

While the patronymic tradition of naming objects after people or families has evolved over time, the use of footstools as a symbol of wealth, status, and pride in one's family heritage is still seen in some cultures today. The trend of footstools being patronymic for TVs in the 1330s serves as a reminder of the importance of tradition and symbolism in everyday objects.