#book rack for study room

[anmolsmsblog]

DeckUp Plank Awana Engineered Wood Book Shelf and Display Unit (Wotan Oak and White, Matte Finish)

Price: (as of – Details) DeckUp Plank Awana Engineered Wood Book Shelf and Display Unit (Wotan Oak and White, Matte Finish) Product Dimensions: L (24 Inches / 60 CMs), W (12 Inches / 30 CMs), H (33 Inches / 84 CMs) Primary Material: Engineered Wood – Particle Board with Laminate; Finish: Matte Wood Grain, Color: Wotan Oak and White, Style: Contemporary Assembly Required: The product requires…

[robotslenderman]

Every time I think I can't possibly fit more furniture in my room my brain goes "challenge accepted" and I shove another thing in.

[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.

[slayfics]

Explode Here

You try to get closer to Katsuki during a study session.

1.4k words

You and Katsuki entered the dorms at the end of the day.

"We still studying?" you asked him.

"Yeah," he responded.

"Alright, I just got to grab my phone charger in my room, and I'll meet you," you said, walking toward your dorm. 

"It's fine. We can just study in your room then," he recommended and began to follow you.

You froze momentarily taken off guard by his suggestion.

"What? Do you not want that?" he asked, noticing your hesitation.

"No! It's fine," you said, trying to hide your surprise.

Katsuki had been in your dorm before but, you two hadn't hung out there just the two of you. Over the past few months, you had gotten to know him more and in turn your crush on him had intensified. As a result, the thought of him being in your room caused butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

You opened the door to your dorm and Katsuki made his way to sit on the floor and leaned against your bed. You puttered around the room and he took out his study materials.

You made quick work of tidying up some things around your dorm and creating a perfect atmosphere for the occasion. Your hands slightly shook as you plugged in your phone and scrolled to a playlist you thought was fitting.

Katsuki didn't pay much attention to you as he was still setting up his things and scrolling on his phone.

"Be right back," you said as you hastily walked into the restroom and shut the door. Panic ensued. It's not a big deal. You told yourself as you took a deep breath and tried to get ahold of your nerves.

It pissed you off that you could be so calm and collected when it was anyone else. Yet when it came to Katsuki you were a mess. Overthinking everything you did and said. It was childish but you just wanted him to like you. So far, your antics must have been working. Katsuki was so closed off to anyone else that you counted it as a win that he even came to your room. The only person you knew he had hung out with like this was Eijiro.

You ran your hands under the water of the faucet and splashed your face with water trying to ground yourself.

"Ok," you whispered to yourself and looked at your reflection in the mirror. This uniform has got to go you thought as you undid the red tie and tossed it on the towel rack. Next, you undid a few of the top buttons of the white collared long-sleeve shirt until you were satisfied with the cleavage shown.

Taking one last deep breath to hype yourself up, you swung open the door to the restroom.

"You ready yet?" Katsuki asked irritated, moving his gaze from his phone to you. Despite his irritation, his pupils dialed when they caught sight of your new appearance. His eyes quickly averted back to his phone as a blush crept onto his face.

"Sorry," you apologized, as you took off the uniform blazer and tossed it on the bed only showcasing your figure more. "I'm ready," you said and sat next to Katsuki on the floor.

Katsuki remained quiet, a timidness now growing inside him. How was he supposed to focus on studying now when you looked like that?

"Where did you want to get started?" You asked and pulled your own study materials out of your bag.

"Here," he said roughly shoving his book at you to show you the page he was on. His gaze still averted from you.

You let out a sigh, mistaking his introversion for disinterest in you. "Ok," you said half-heartedly and you two got to work studying.

The study session proved to be unsuccessful for you both. Neither of you had much of a mind to concentrate on. You found yourself devising plans to get closer to Katsuki and pique his interest. While Katsuki was internally yelling at himself for the confusing feelings he had. Up to this point in his life, all that was ever on his mind was being the number one hero, so being distracted by you felt like a weakness to him. Yet, at the same time he wanted more.

"Wait this one is confusing me," you said commenting on the recent hero law you both had just gone over.

"Seriously? It's easy," he said.

You ignored his rude comment, "Aizawa was talking so fast I couldn't take notes on it," you complained. "Let me see what you wrote," you said moving closer to him. You brushed against him as you leaned closer to read the notebook in his lap. 

Katsuki tensed up, "I'll read it to you," he said shifting a bit away from you.

Katsuki began to read, and frustration erupted in your mind. You knew he had to feel fond for you, so why did he push back on all your attempts to be closer?

You sighed and listened to him explain.

"Make more sense now?" he asked.

"Yeah, but then what about this part?" You asked pointing with your pen to another law. You sat at a respectable distance as he explained more to you.

You followed along in his notes as he explained but the scars on his hand caught your attention as he pointed out different subjects to you.

You grabbed his hand to inspect the scars and he stopped mid-sentence.

"The fuck are you doing?" He asked.

"Which training did you get these?" You asked.

"Tch- this is why you can't remember anything you don't listen!" He barked but didn't remove his hand.

"I am listening!" You yelled back and repeated everything he just explained to you.

"Good, then what about the last law we went over today in class?" he asked.

"Can you go over that one too?" you asked hesitantly ready for another lecture, but to your surprise, he agreed.

As he explained, you grabbed your pen and began to doodle on his hand. Katsuki stopped briefly, "I'm listening promise." You said, and he continued. His hand lay in yours as you drew on his palm and listened to his explanation of the hero law.  

With your eyes focused on his hand Katsuki took the opportunity to finally steal glances at you without your knowledge. He hated how his heart rate increased every time he did. Looking back at his hand he scoffed, "That supposed to be me?!"

You giggled, "Yeah," and brought his hand up for him to inspect the chibi drawing you did.

"I don't look that angry," he complained.

"What are you talking about?! You literally look like this right now! It's a splitting image," You teased and held his hand up next to him to compare.

Katsuki grunted and pulled his hand away.

"Wait! I'm not done!" you said and made a reach for it. To your surprise, Katsuki didn't fight you as you pulled his hand back down to draw more.

"There," you said completing your doddle.

Katsuki brought his hand up to his face and let out a scoff.

The words "Explode Here" were written with an arrow pointing to the center of his hand.

"Alright well, I think that's enough for today then," he said packing up his stuff.

"I've irritated you to your max?" You questioned teasingly.

"Hah! That happened a long time ago," he said with a teasing smirk back. "See ya tomorrow," he said standing up and throwing his bag over his shoulder.

"Yeah goodnight," you said as he left.

You let a frustrated groan once he was gone and threw yourself on your bed. You thought Katsuki was just a stubborn boy and would take longer to admit his feelings but, maybe you were wrong, and you should stop trying so hard.

You prepared yourself to give up the chase until you saw Katsuki the next day in class. Nothing happened, he didn't say anything, and he didn't even greet you with anything more than a nod. Yet, when he sat down and brought his hand up to rest his chin on- you caught sight of your doodle still on his hand. A grin spread on your face knowing he hadn't washed it off.

The doodle remained on his hand for the next few days to come, and at the next study session, you two had he commented, "What? No artwork this time?" as he offered his hand to you.

sinners: @queenpiranhadon @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @fiannee @i-heart-carlisle @derangedmango @matchat3a @bakugouswaif @reneinii @peachsukii @pastelbakugou @abadbitchblogs @deluluforcarlos55 @b134ch-m4h-ey3z @pinkpurpledreams @that-one-fangirl69 @dreamcastgirl99 @jays-adventure3 @bythevay

[rainydayathogwarts]

Curtain call - Spencer Reid

Summary: You're an actress. Opening night of the show, a cast member is killed. FBI finds out you were the real target... Warnings: mentions of blood, a kiss 2k wc

Adrenaline rushes through you as you run through the wings, catching your breath as you made your way across the backstage. You had just about a minute until you had to be on stage once more, the big number now coming to its end. Rushing into the costume room, you barely acknowledge the one thing obviously wrong with the messy space until you reach for your next costume on the rack, moving all other clothes aside to find it. There’s something inappropriate about your outfit. One, there isn’t supposed to be any blood on it yet there it is, a bloody handprint, running all the way to the bottom of your dress. That’s when your eyes trail down to the bottom of the clothing rack, where you get a clear look of the body lying underneath the row of clothes. Blood was soaking through her entire costume and her skin was turning blue. It’s only when someone runs into the changing room at risk of missing your cue that you hear a gut-wrenching scream. Later, you’d be told that it had come from you. 

Being called into the theatre the next day for “mandatory debriefing” was not what you had expected after such a traumatic experience, but you came in nonetheless, afraid of losing the job after the scene you had caused the night before. After screaming bloody-murder, half the cast ran into the changing rooms to find you hysterically crying over your cast mate’s body, holding her cold hand. The audience had been scared half to death, and after the authorities made it onto the scene, everyone was evacuated out of the theatre. By finding her body, you had cost everyone a night of the show. 

But once you got to the theatre, angry yellow tape cutting off access to the public, you were approached by a handsome man with a serious face and confident posture, offering you his hand even as he walked towards you. “Miss L/N? It’s nice to meet you, I’m Agent Morgan with the FBI, and this is Dr. Reid. We just have a few questions we would like you to answer for us.” Agent Morgan had been a very kind man, who told you every formality that was written in the book, however the man he had introduced to you as Dr. Reid caught your attention in a way you weren’t aware would be good or bad. Dr. Reid stayed silent as Agent Morgan questioned you, deeply staring at you as you answered all that was thrown at you, shooting you quizzical looks every now and then and glancing down at your fidgety hands. 

“Thank you so much for all this Miss L/N, that’s all our questions.” As Agent Morgan began to stand, Dr. Reid looked up at you, “Actually, I do have a few more if you don’t mind.” Agent Morgan shot his partner a confused look, slowly backing down into his seat once more. “Do you know why Evelyn was in the costume room when she was? With my limited understanding of the play, I was under the impression that her character didn’t have any costume changes up to the point you had gotten to before she was killed.” And then those that followed:

“Was anyone other than you supposed to be in the changing rooms at that moment?”

“Is there anyone in the cast who has taken a specific liking or dislike towards you?” 

“Can you remember any specific encounters with anyone as you were going in or out of the theatre?”

“Have you received any eye catching letters from fans recently?” 

Finally, Dr. Reid’s prying had gotten you somewhere, leaving you more terrified than ever, with Agent Morgan reassuring you “It’s just a theory that Dr. Reid has, so we’re only taking precaution. There’s nothing to worry about just yet.” The two agents drove you back to your place where you led them to the cursed fan-letter drawer in your study. "I don't usually read them because there are so many." You admitted, crossing your arms tightly over your torso, observing as the doctor starting frantically pulling letters out of the tidied drawer, eyes briefly scanning the name on the front of each envelope. He threw several to the side, dropping the rest onto the floor after reading the name until nearly ten minutes later, all the letters laid on the floor.

Dr. Reid scrambled to gather the letters he had tossed to the side, standing up hurriedly. You stared at the pile in his hands, glancing back up at the two men for an explanation. "These are all sent from the same person. I'd like to read them and see if I can analyse the language used. I think one of us should stay here with you for the mean time." You nodded at Dr. Reid's words, briefly looking over to his partner for confirmation. "I think Reid should stay here as he looks over the letters." He moved his attention from you to Dr. Reid "You can ask her any questions you might have and it'll be good protection." The partners nodded to each other and almost instantly, Agent Morgan exited the room.

Dr. Reid's hand came up before hesitantly placing it on your shoulder. "Do you mind if I get settled here? Ask some questions?" You shook your head silently before asking "Um, since you'll be here awhile, can I get you something? Coffee?" Dr. Reid nodded, muttering a quiet "That would be lovely." You don't know what it was: maybe the fact that he was here to protect to or trying to save your life, but felt your heart beat in your chest aggressively, as though trying to break through your skin. You brought him coffee, sugar and packets of cream on the side just in case and watched in awe as he emptied out the small cup of sugar. Sweet, just like him.

"Dr. Reid-" "Spencer. Please." You nodded, scooting your chair closer to him as he took a sip of coffee. "Did I make a mistake by not reading these?" The envelopes made loud unfolding noises every time he pulled a letter out of a different one, and he shook his head. "No. I know I wouldn't open so many of these and I have an IQ of 187." You grinned, your chest bubbling with a giggle. Spencer perked up at the sound of your laughter, smiling gently at you. He wasn't trying to joke around, but he was happy to uplift your mood. He studied all the letters laid out in front of him, and immediately noticed a pattern.

'02.02.18, I saw you in Oliver! today, you make an amazing Nancy.'

'14.02.18, I watched you in Oliver! again. You somehow get better the more I see you on stage.'

'07.03.18 I loved you today in the show. I watched the evening show. Did you see me too?'

'17.03.18 I saw your show again. I can be your Bill Sykes if you'd let me."

'11.04.18 I've been waiting anxiously to see you again since Oliver stopped touring. You make a wonderful Veronica.'

'15.04.18 We can be Seventeen together! Let me be your JD.'

"This isn't good." Without any further explanation, he pulled his phone out, dialling a number. "He's using obsessive language and saw her in Oliver! and Heathers, both of which have abusive partners who either kill or try to kill who Y/N's playing. You need to go visit his address right now." Coincidentally, just as he hangs up the phone, your doorbell rings. Your blood runs cold and you stand up instantly, but Spencer steps in front of you, blocking you from going anywhere. "Stay behind me, but stay close." He mutters, pulling his gun from his hostler. Spencer watches you closely, and the profiler in him notices how your breath begins to speed up and your eyes glaze with tears.

One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek and he whispers "Breathe. I'm right here so no one's going to hurt you, okay?" You nod, staying as close as you can to him without touching him until you get to the front door. He peeks through the peephole and his shoulders drop as an "Oh." Escapes him. He opens and closes the door faster than you can register, now holding another letter in his hand, identical to all the ones scattered on your desk.

Six words are written on the letter when Spencer opens him, and his face pales. It was meant to be you. Spencer grabs your hand, dragging you back into your study - the one room in your house with no windows. He locks the door, pressing numbers on his phone again before it's against his ear. "It's definitely him, he just sent another letter. We're in her study but he might be around the premises or returning to his house. I don't plan on getting her out of the study until you get him." The second the words leave his mouth you're processing them, and tears are welling in your eyes once more.

The sound of sniffling gets his attention back to you and his hands are gently coming up to your shoulders, leading you to sit down in a chair. "I'm scared." You whisper helplessly, looking up at the doctor. He crouches down to your level, and hand on your knee. "Hey, what did I say before?" He looks at you intently waiting for an answer. "No one's gonna hurt me." Spencer nods, a soft smile gracing his features. "Yes, exactly. No one's going to hurt you. I have an excellent team looking for that son of a bitch as we speak and I am right here with you."

You nod, not entirely convinced, which he can apparently tell, so he continues with "Come on, look at these muscles. You think anyone will get to you when I have these babies?" His tongue pokes out slightly as he flexes his arms, which are actually more toned than you realise. You laugh again and feel yourself launching your body at him before you can stop yourself, pulling him into a tight hug. He hesitates, but eventually, his arms are pulling you even closer to him, one hand rubbing circles on your back to soothe you. You break the hug, but before you can help yourself, you realise you're leaning into him, pressing your lips against his in a passionate kiss. To your surprise he immediately returns the kiss, his hands cupping your face as he deepens the kiss.

He's panting when he pulls away from you, whispering "This is unprofessional. I'm sorry, I like you, I do, but I shouldn't." Cocking your head to the side, you can't help but smile slightly. "It's only unprofessional for one of us so technically it's not unprofessional at all." His face twists in confusion as he tries processing your words. "That's not how it wo-mmph." the rest of his words are muffled by the second kiss you give him, which you feel him melting into as one of his hands comes to rest on your hip. "After- after the case. After the case, I'll take you on a date." His face falls at his own words, his face reddening in embarrassment. "That is- I mean that's only if you want. I wouldn't take you on a date if you didn't want to, that's totally fine."

The door to the study slams open just as he finishes rambling and you scream in fear, tightly gripping Spencer's hand and turning around expecting to find a middle aged balding creep, only to find a much sexier bald man, putting his gun back in his hostler. "Did you not hear us screaming for you? We thought he might have gotten to you before we found him. Ms. L/N, you're safe, we found him." Agent Morgan's gaze slowly trails to where your hand tightly grips Spencer's, and when he sees the flush on Spencer's face he makes a "Huh" noise, before walking out of the room once more.

taglist: @ineedtosusoutmyreadinglist

[tiethenott]

NOTT WANTED

Theodore Nott x ???reader

Theodore was six when he first saw you.Days after his dear mother's death,he found himself wondering the Nott manor,his juvenile self looking at the dark walls decorated in portraits of his father and himself,his mother erased from all.He walked along the hall,searching for his mother's portrait but it was empty,all what was left was the dark background.A scowl look appears on Theo's youthful face at the realization of his mother's erasal from the pictures.His anger faded into sadness as his colourful eyes bled hot tears that travelled down his face and fell onto his oversized sweater.He sat in the middle of the hall,crying his little heart out,his sobs echoing off the walls. That's when his tear-gazed eyes saw you,peeking out from the end of the hall,your long,dark hair falling as your green eyes stare back at him.Most of the children his age would scream and run away,wailing for their mother,but he did not have that pleasure.He felt a peculiar sense of comfort emanating from your dark aura as he tilted his head,watching your figure draw in closer to the vulnerable boy.You looked his age,but you didnt look..real?you were thin,had sharp yet soft features like him and he found recognition in you.But the odd thing his child brain noticed was that you didnt look real,he couldn't describe it.You certainly weren't a ghost as you looked nothing like what the ancient books of mystical creatures described ghosts as,you weren't see through but you were paler. "Why are you crying?" you tilt your head as you stood Infront of him.Your voice was sweet yet monotone.He had millions of questions,what was your name?who were your parents?where are there?did they have a meeting with his father who was cooped up in his study?Why are you here?Who were you? But no words came out of his mouth as he sobbed,a pityful look flooded your face as you kneeled down and wiped his tears.He flinched at your ice cold touch,too cold to be normal. "Who..who are you?" he mumbled through broken sobs as sit down from your former position "Im..your friend" a smile appears on your face. His words were cut off by his father's angry stomps down the stairs towards the hall."Boy,what are you doing?" he grabs theodore's arm and drags him towards his room,Theo looks back to not see anything besides an empty hall "Why are you crying and who the hell were you talking to?" his father scolds "Stop your nonsense Theodore." were his last words before he locks him in his room He sits on his bed,his head down,his young pre mature mind confused beyond limits,trying to rack his brain around what he saw "Teddy?" he hears from the same kiddish voice causing him to snap his head around his room to his closet opening and your figure emerging slowly You slowly approch him,hesitantly wrapping your arms around him,but he barely felt your touch,only coldness he grew to find comfort in "W..whats your name?" he says pulling away "Y/N."

Theodore continued to see you over the years,showing up whenever he was lonely,crying or just randomly.He concidered you his friend as you were always there with him.However,when he tried to introduce you to Mattheo and Draco,they shared confused glances before telling theodore they didnt see anything.You were right next to him. The last time he saw you was the day before his tenth birthday,he was sneaking down the stairs for a glass of water,navigating the dark house. "Hi teddy!" you startle him at the end of the staircase "Merlin Y/N dont do that!" he jumps "Oh..I'm sorry" you tilt your head as you continue to walk next to him in silence as he drank his water "So..what are we doing for your birthday tommorow?youre turning double digits!" you ask walking back up the staircase Thats when it clicks,he didnt know anything about you besides your name whereas you basically knew everything about him! "Y/N,when is your birthday?" he asks curiously as your warm smile you always have around him falters "Thats..not important" you say standing infront of him,ascending the stairs backwards "I just want to know,I barely know anything about you" he innocently states "You dont need to know anything about me,all that matters is that I'm your bestfriend." "But..if we are bestfriends,shouldn't I know atleast something about you?Besides Mattheo's my bestfriend!" he states watching your lack of emotion face contort into anger and jealousy as your eyes darken,that was the first time he felt scared around you. Suddenly,you push him back,causing him to tumble down the stairs.He woke up in his bed perfectly fine with not an ounce of discomfort or pain. Sitting up,dazed and confused he spots a gift wrapped in black and white paper sitting in his open doorway.Standing up,he approches the present and crouches down,cautiously opening it to reveal a dead black cat which magically came to life and crawled into his lap when he fell back in shock and horror.

Theodore left for Hogwarts a year later,thinking he left you and the horrors of his childhood behind in the dark jail he called his house. The next time he was you was when he was 15 and in the Slytherin Common Room,trying weed for the first time with Blaise.Taking his first long,sharp drag of the poorly rolled up joint,his vision blurred,feeling the heavy effects as he came back to normal,the buzz around him fading.That's when he saw you,peeking around from the corner,a warm smile on your face.But you looked..different,more grown,his age and eerily beautiful His eyes widened as he stared at you coming in closer,dressed in Slytherin robes "Hi teddy,long time no see" your voice was sharper and cooler yet still had the underlining sweetness.You were dressed in Slytherin robes as if you were a student of Hogwarts.His eyes dart to Blaise who was leaned back,unbothered,enjoying the effects of the drug "Teddy?don't ignore me!" you demand,your eyebrows furrow,your cold and demanding tone making him hyperventilate as you draw closer "No!stop!" he yells getting off the couch,a pout appears on your lips "Theo,whats going on?" Blaise asks,his eyes darting to his freaked out friend "Her!Dont you see her!" he yells pointing to you,standing calmly,your head tilted as your arms are behind you back "Mate I dont see anyone,no one is there,hey calm the hell down" Blaise says as you glare at the boy talking,how dare he shout at your teddy?you'll punish him later. "Teddy,arent you happy to see me?" you ask as a black cat approaches you.Your eyes light up "You kept him!" you squeal as you lift the cat who purrs as you pet him Theodore did not sleep that night and Blaise woke up with painful scratch marks across his body.

The following week Theodore had changed.He barely talked,only drank coffee and barely ate,his eyes were contrasted with dark,swollen bags held beneath his gloomy gaze.He barely attended classes and spent his time cooped up in the restricted section of the library.The boy did not know what he was looking for,his friends were concerned but months later,he eventually returned back to his normal self. Thats when the nightmares started.Nightmares that made no sense,some were downright horrifying that scared his tormented mind but sometimes,he woke up in the middle of his night,sweat beads forming on his forehead as he panted roughly,fumbling to put on the sidelamp to illuminate his dark room.When he collected himself,he couldnt even remember what the nightmare entailed,or if he even had any.They didnt stop. However,there was one day where he was spared of all torment.

Theodore holds a bouquet of roses in his hands as he walks along the gravel path,being careful as to not step on anyone's graze.He stops the familar tombstone and sadly simles to himself,sitting down and placing the flowers on the base of it. "Hi mum" he says softly,looking at the dirty place and brushing some leaves and vines off the head of it,revealing his mothers name. "Its erm..been 10 years without you..still cant believe it,dont know how i'm still here honestly." he sadly mumbles,looking down,fidgeting with his hands "I miss you everyday..I always wonder how it would be like if you were still with me." his eyes well with tears "I always ask myself,if you wouldbe proud of the person i'm becoming.." tears start cascading down his cheek. "I..i..fuck" his puts his face in his plams,sobbing. He feels that familar,cold touch on his back,running up and down,comforting,pulling him into an embrace "Its ok,teddy.I'm here" you whisper sweetly in his ear The one day of the year he is ok with you being there,not shooing you away or yelling. That night he has no nightmares but feels an icy hand brushing the curls out of his face,sat next to him on his bed.

The nightmare's as well as your visits stopped when he turned 17.Sipping on his black coffee,listening to Draco and Mattheo's foolish arguement when Dumbledore makes an announcement. "Students!Welcome back from your breaks and welcome back to Hogwarts!before we sort our new first year's,we have a new 7th year student,welcome Ms.Y/N!"

The doors open and theodore's heart dropps,his face drains of colour as his nerves are filled with dread.A sudden coldness envelops him. The girl who has tormented him,who wasnt real enters through the large french doors,you look exactly the same.Long back hair,green eyes,think body but youre not as pale and youre eeriely pretty.You walk up to the sorting hat,students chattering amongst themselves at the sight of the new student "SLYTHERIN!"

the sorting hat deems as the entire house of slytherin erupts into celebration,everyone besides him.You walk to the end of the table,immediately chatting with friends you had in Hogwarts.Then,you feel gazes burning into you and look to see a group staring dead at you. You freeze as you lay eyes upon the boy who has always been there in your life,everywhere you went but would disappear years,months or days at a time.The one who haunted you. The colour drains from your eyes as both of you stare dead into eachothers eyes,your petrified gaze stuck on him as your leg begins to shake 'What the fuck'. you thought

You hurridly exited the great hall,mumbling some excuse about feeling ill to your friends You run down the hall,loosening the suffocating robes that weren't even tight.Paranoid,you run,feeling as of he was behind you.Your tormenter.He made your life hell at Beauxbatons causing you to leave and come here.Where he followed you.But he looked..different.He had more colour and he didnt wear that sickly smile he always had around you. Entering what seems to be the bathroom,you place your hands of the edge of the sinks,your head down as you try to collect yourself.Sweat beads forming on your face,you feel as if everything was closing in on you as you take deep,frantic breaths. The door opens.

Looking in the mirror,your heart drops as you see him.He wears an angry,stonic look as he appoches you,making you turn around "What are you doing here!Leave me alone!" you frightenly yell "Youre the one who has been torment me!" he scolds "What!no!you've followed me my whole life,ruined it!stop it!" Your words confuse him,making his eyebrows furrow "Youre the one whos stalked me and ruined my life!" the angry boy yells,secretly drawing his wand "What?You're the one who tried to kill me,you've been there,ruining everything!leave!now-" youre cut off by the green strobe hitting your chest "Sectumsempra" theodore yells,the green light darting out of his wand hits your chest,causing you to fall back,screaming As theodore hears your wails,he feels a similar ghostly,cold hand on his shoulder "Good job,Teddy" you warmly smile as he watches between you and well..you? As youre wailing,you see him crouch by you,sickly smiling "Awh,poor Y/N-ey" he fake puts,flollwing it with the same smile,brushing the curls out of your face as your gaze dart between him and..him? You let out another blood curdling scream,the red metallic liquid gushing out of your body as your eyes flutter,shutting

The next day Theodore Nott and Y/N did not show up to the great hall.The great hall's light and cheery mood was replaced with silenced whispering and an inexcusable eerie mood The Daily Prophet's report was the only thing being disscussed. DEATHEATER’S SON STRIKES Theodore Nott attacks Beaxbatons transfer,Y/N.

"Students." dumbledore spoke strictly "I am sure you have all heard about the unfortunate attack last night in the east wing's bathroom.Theodore Nott atttacked Y/N with a forbidden curse resulting in her being in fatal condition.She is currently being treated in the infirmary and we wish her a speedy recovery.However,Mr.Nott is nowhere to be found.If anyone has seen him please report it.From this point forward,Theodore Nott is considered a threat to Hogwarts."

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ An Endearing Infestation

Tw: none, silly fluff

It started with catching one of those tiny rascals in your house as you cleaned. No bigger than the size of your palm, a tiny blob of soot-like ink was accidentally caught amidst your vacuuming when you tidied up your house in your Serenitea Pot. You didn't even comprehend it resembled a small bird chick with one crimson eye since the small thing got frightened and scurried off underneath your couch. Any attempts to look for it were futile.

Another time, you were certain you caught two identical ones playing in the closet before sprinting with a hurried squeak when you stepped into the room. You started doubting your eyesight at first, before speculating the worst - some sort of an infestation in your pristine clean house. Yet your worries were settled aside when you finally managed to take a closer look at the many little birds that found residence within the crooks of your house. Fluffy in an unkempt manner, they were tiny birds that stared at you with their single crimson eye and a tiny crest on their round soot-colored bodies. You could almost chuckle at how silly these weird creatures were, but you couldn’t deny their cuteness. They were afraid you would kick them away, or even shoo them with a broom - but you’re not that heartless. 

The entourage of identical yet tiny blobs often observed you. They appeared curious about the many things you did in your Serenitea Pot. When you read in your study, they would play with the books. When you cooked food in your kitchen, some of the tiny birds would try and help you by pushing the spice rack closer or bringing more stems of herbs. And on late, cold nights, when you’d light up the fireplace in the guest room, even the timidest of the bunch would come out from their hiding spot to huddle neatly for warmth. They were easily spooked by the tiniest of movements, so you did not disturb their gentle napping when they fluffed up their pitch-black feathers and clustered close to you for heat. It was a charming sight.

Nevertheless, you are yet to discover where these little rascals came from. You never encountered them during your travels in Teyvat, that's for sure. However, something about those round eye orbs of theirs seemed familiar… There must be a source. And most importantly, why would these rascals broaden in quantity when a certain Fatui Doctor stays in your Serenitea Pot?

Your brain instantly conjured up a thought, like a detective reaching a moment of eureka when solving a mystery  - Dottore. 

With a grumble and a whine, you had to confront him. To no one's surprise, the Harbinger found solace in your Serenitea Pot, often spending time in your study or directly bothering you. It’s a habit of his, like a daily routine. Thus, you stormed upstairs to your library where he lingered, and saw him sitting casually by the desk. 

Dottore wasn’t reading. He wasn’t mulling over some papers or research. No, he was plainly sitting and peeking somewhere behind the table.

“Dottore,” - you declared his name firmly. “Whatcha got there?”

The man glances at you neutrally; no surprise or dismissive groans. Yep, this man is concealing something. He replies nonchalantly: “Nothing. Just my morning coffee, as you can clearly see. Perhaps you need a vision check, dear?”

You give him the look. A look of raised eyebrows and a glare that says ‘Oh really now?’. Dottore's mouth pressed into a thin line, silently holding the mug. He remained eerily still and silent as if you tested each other through nonverbal communication.

And yet neither of you broke the silence, but instead, a small birdttore peeked from the Doctor’s mug. Even when the little thing caught your scrutinizing gaze and tried to hide in the mug, its single-feathered crest was still visible from the mug.

“There isn’t even any coffee in your mug, Dottore!” - you huffed in an astounded manner, placing your hands on your hips. “Come on, spill it out. How many of those wee bird-things you’ve got hiding?”

“I literally have no idea what you’re rambling about. Don’t be outrageous.” - He replied in such an easy and dismissive manner; it would’ve been believable were it not for that impish smirk that tried to break free on his face.

“Dottore, there is one peeking in your mug and I can see another one hiding by the chair. Perhaps you’re the one who requires his vision checked, hm?”

With a deep sigh and a mocking tone, his shoulders loosened and he reluctantly put down his facade - “Fine, you’ve got me. Consider this as an astute observation on your part. Are you pleased?”

As Dottore sat up more comfortably by the desk, the abundance of teeny ink blobs came out from their hiding. So minuscule yet wobbly, they gleefully revealed themselves and started scurrying everywhere. On the desk, by the floor, in Dottore’s mug… some even happily climbed onto your leg as you stood there, baffled. Dottore just watched with that giddy grin of his.

“... Okay, so, what are these? And why are there more of them in my house? Please tell me this isn’t some sort of an experiment gone wrong and now you’re disposing of them in my home, like getting rid of an infestation.”

“Infestation? Do not be ridiculous. It is clearly the opposite! A small experiment gone right, and now it's serving its purpose.”

“And that purpose is… what?” - You raised an eyebrow. Dottore stood up and smiled cheekily:

“Having bits and pieces of me to accompany you while I’m away.”

He replied so confidently as if it was ludicrous of you to not realize it earlier. Yes, of course. Creating sentient little bird things so your significant other wouldn’t be bored. So obvious!

“...Is this some sort of ritual or experiment that I am not aware of?” - You clasped your hands and asked suspiciously. Some of the tiny blobs climbed onto your head. “Because if this is your way of ‘marking your territory’ then excuse me. I didn’t know that mad scientists exercise such a custom.”  

“Oh shut it. You’re not even mad that I sneaked in so many of them when I visited you. It was comically easy to slip them every other day in your manor. That means they are serving their purpose accordingly. Stealthily keeping you company.” - Il Dottore smiled triumphantly, standing right in front of you.

“Wha-? I can barely handle one Dottore, and now you make me handle many tiny pieces of you? Countless silly little birdttores to keep an eye on me? No way!”  

“Sure, sure,” - The Doctor scoffed and laughed at your attempt at teasing. His one arm wrapped around your shoulder and pulled you for a much-needed kiss on the cheek. His lips pressing tightly and lingering on your skin. “There, can your endearing face handle just a couple more kisses or must I humbly request for that smile of yours to return?”

You rolled your eyes at him but didn't rebuttal.

Hence, the evening was spent the usual way. Resting by the couch, the fire crackled in the fireplace. And while you and Dottore relished in the rare opportunity of leisure time, the tiny birdttores huddled once more by your lap or perched on Dottore’s shoulder. The Harbinger kept his arm around you, allowing you to rest your head on his chest. Although you couldn’t see through his mask, his stern expression kept an eye on the teeny rascals, as if warning them not to disturb you at home if they didn’t want to be exterminated on the spot.

Therefore, all was well... But Dottore had to think of ways to lock the bedroom in the future so those scoundrels wouldn’t bother you two in bed.

➻ First time posting a fic here. Please tell me how I did! And if you wish to see a casual day with Dottore and his birbttores - here is my art! 

[galedekarios]

down among the dead men

i finally finished reading sylvia feketekuty's short story in tevinter nights. sylvia feketekuty is also emmrich's writer in dragon age: the veilguard.

i wanted to compile what we learn about emmrich in sylvia's short story.

emmrich likes tea

"What happened then?" the older mage tilted a pot of tea encouragingly toward Audric.

his study is described in detail

Audric shook his head--he didn't feel like tea, particularly--while his eyes soaked in the room. He'd never been in a necromancer's study before. Ornately decorated skulls hung from hooks in the high, dark ceiling. One wall was made up of shelves with books and tiny labeled drawers. The other was fronted by tables full of bubbling flasks, scales, alembics, and tortured-looking glass. A smartly attired servant ground away with a pestle and mortar.

"Excellent question!" Emmrich swirled the tea in his mug, looking entirely too cheerful, Audric thought, for a man framed by so many racks of skulls.

the description of his study in down among the dead men is very, very reminiscent of his room in the lighthouse that bioware revealed a few days ago:

emmrich may have recreated the comforts of his study in nevarra within the lighthouse.

emmrich lets manfred mix tinctures

"Please, don't mind Manfred." The older mage refilled his own cup. "He'll finish mixing that tincture before you know it." Manfred, a clean-boned skeleton, held up a bowl. Audric read something helpful in the cant of its skull. The younger mage looked critical. "It needs half a cup more elfroot." The corpse pulled out one of the drawers on the side of the room, took out a withered root, and shook it inquiringly. "The royal elfroot, please." Manfred moaned and fumbled at more drawers.

emmrich compliments manfred's successes and is proud of him

"Yes! That's the one." The older mage beamed. "Very good indeed, Manfred!"

emmrich's appearance is described as well by audric

Audric dragged his gaze to the older Watcher across from him, with his silvered hair, tidy mustache, and long face full of concern. His expression reminded Audric of the Chantry scholars when they'd caught him reading by candlelight in the library. The good brothers and sisters had kindly tried to dissuade Audric from living in pages for so long he couldn't think straight in the morning.

i think they a phenomenal job bringing emmrich to life (no pun intended).

emmrich is quite informal, cares about putting someone else at ease, he treats audric as he would a living person, never forcing him to arrive at a conclusion or pressuring him

"Is there anything else you can recall about Lord Karn's funeral?" the mage asked gently. "No? I think... not much, sir. Another guard, she, well... Dellah even had to peel him off me, sir." The necromancer waved a hand. "Emmrich will do, please."

macabre sense of humour

"It's... sorry, it's a blur of screams, sir." "Some of it your own, I'd bet," the necromancer joked, but looked so sympathetic Audric relaxed by a degree.

he is indeed a professor/very scholarly

"Myra picked up the curved rib bone. One end was jagged from where Audric's boot had connected with Karn's rib cage. She handed it to Emmrich. "Excellent. Emmrich? This is your remit." "I'll have it ready before sunset." He sighed. "It would be faster if we'd managed to replace the librarian by now. The students have naturally left the books a mess."

this all fits so well with the blurb we were given about him not so long:

"Emmrich is as serious about his duty to protect innocents from the occult as he is about his studies and his interest in the mysteries of the fade."

don't leave the books in disorder, please.

emmrich is renowned to be good at what he does by other mourn watchers

"Myrna seemed content to leave things there, and took something out of a velvet purse. A rib bone. "Emmrich's prepared your trophy for us. His cathexis is very reliable." Audric felt the ground tilt downslope. "Madam?" "His magic." She tapped the rib bone. "This will now guide us to where Lord Karn's fled. Emmrich would join us, but he's been called to other matters."

i had to look up what cathexis means exactly and it's defined as follows:

In psychoanalysis, cathexis (or emotional investment) is defined as the process of allocation of mental or emotional energy to a person, object, or idea. [...] Cathexis comes to us by way of New Latin from the Greek word kathexis, meaning "holding."

myrna uses a skeleton to send a message to emmrich, presumably he might employ similar methods of communication if available

"Good." Myrna sent a mote of light into a nook in the wall. A moment later, a skeleton fell out, hissing and snapping. Myrna snagged it with a collar of green fire, tugged it like a leash. "Does that... hurt it?" Audric asked, more sympathetic to the shambling thing than he'd been a minute ago. "The sensations differ. With some of the dead, one must exert direct control." The skeleton subsided, making a strange whine. "A message," the Mourn Watcher told it. "Find Professor Emmrich Volkahrin. Tell him after some last business in the Winged Halls, we'll be joining him above without delay."

this description reminded me a bit of the brief glimpses we got of emmrich in the very first companion trailer:

emmrich appreciates punctuality & holding oneself to prior commitments

"You heard my message to Emmrich." She crooked a finger, gesturing to Audric. "We'll be expected. It won't be difficult to return from here. Audric looked around. "I can... I'm allowed to come back with you?" "Of course. Myrna lifted her skirts and stepped over a chunk of stone from the fight. "Emmrich will be put out if we don't show up for tea."

emmrich is incredibly kind when dealing with spirits and undead, no matter their rank or standing in life

"They were back in Emmrich's den. Audric had been astonished to see familiar tomes in a neat stack on the necromaner's desk. "Those... are those...?" "Yours, yes. From your home." Emmrich shook his head. "Forgive the liberty, guardsman. After you and Myrna left for the Necropolis, I had to search for a reason you might have returned so unexpectedly." "I believe we found it," Mysrna said, from where she was overseeing Emmrich's manservant transfer the contents of a bubbling beaker into a bowl. Emmrich handed the top book to Audric. It was a gazetteer of Nevarra City, stamped with a crowned skull surrounded by flowers. Audric flipped it open and read the blocky inscription. To our Son with Love. May you be Blessed in your Studied with the Chantry. "All this effort... for me? I'm just a guardsman, sir." Am? Was? Audric pushed doubt aside and held the gazetteer to his chest. He existed, knew what he loved, and that he had been loved, and that seemed enough in the moment. "The great leveler has no favourites." Emmrich smiled. "Neither does the Mourn Watch."

i found this reaction to myrna and audric quite interesting, and i'm not completely sure what to make of it yet:

"You are faced with a choice," Myrna said, coming over. "You have confronted your killer, and recognised your driving passion. You may rest now, guardsman." "Or?" "Or you may work under the auspices of a Watcher," Myrna said. "Under a modicum of magical control. To avoid anomie, the bond must be given freely." "To you, madam?" "If it's satisfactory." The guardsman ducked his head, and because that felt inadequate, knelt on a knee and held out a hand. Myrna, smiling slightly, took it. Emmrich coughed, looking away. "Please, let the poor fellow up. What position were you thinking?" "I thought it was obvious." Audric felt a slow excitement as he heard Myrna say: "We have a great need for someone to take charge of the library."

overall, i really liked this short story.

i loved how audric wasn't aware that he is, in fact, dead and has died a while ago. i loved how both emmrich and myrna didn't correct his assumption, but led him to the realisation. i love all the little insights we got into emmrich as a character, but also nevarra's culture, necromancy and the mourn watch.

it's definitely one of the best in the book. 🖤

[knnichs]

if you could be mine, if we could be us

— wherein he realizes that he's fallen in love with you.

c. akira, akechi, ryuji, yusuke

t. fluff, gn!reader, reader is a member of the phantom thieves and is a persona user, joker & akira have incredibly opposite personalities (tad bit exaggerated), kamoshida & madarame mention (sorry), yusuke forgives madarame, minor spoilers for akechi & yusuke, no/very little dialogue, wc: 1.5k

The mementos may not be the best time to think about it, but Akira can’t help but blush. He finally noticed that he has feelings for his best friend.

After hearing the rest of the group tease him about having a soft spot for you—you would expect the leader of the Phantom Thieves to be a little smart, but he’s surprisingly unfazed that they realized it before he did.

Recently, you saw how Joker had been more of a show-off during battle. With flashy moves and unnecessary very cliche lines when interrogating a shadow, (which you are very sure he practiced in front of the bathroom mirror in Leblanc) all while having the energy to have a signature finishing move when defeating an opponent. He becomes more chatty, more confident—more cocky. You love seeing Joker enjoying his time, but in all honesty it’s a bit unsettling. The usually quiet-but-snarky leader is suddenly talkative. What happened?

As a joke, you confronted him about it in a teasing manner. “Joker, somethin’ good happen?” You would say. All you will get is a smile as he waves off the question, “Nothing specific happened.”

Unfortunately, as soon as you return to reality, he will continue back to his usual self. It’s as if a shift happened to his entire personality as soon as he had the mask on. The truth is, being in the metaverse does somewhat help with how he is feeling. It gives him the confidence boost he needs to be just the tiniest bit more like a guy you could only read in books. He still acts like a proper gentleman, even in reality, but his metaverse self—Joker, is exactly the kind of person who would unironically steal your heart. Being on television and having fangirls of his own, you would at least expect him to take advantage of his charm just to impress you, no?

Akechi isn’t surprised. Not the slightest bit.

You were always willing to help him with academics—despite him already being smart to handle his studies and detective work. You say it’s so that he doesn’t go home so tired all the time. Each time he smiles and refuses your offer, saying he’s able to perfectly balance his work life with his school curriculars. Though this does lead to him being over exhausted one too many times.

You end up visiting Akechi in his apartment when you find the time, inviting him to a night out to destress. There is a slim chance you will find him in a vulnerable state; Drowsy and tired, heavy eyebags from another night of staying up. Maybe he hasn’t slept at all and has to decline your offer to take time to rest. Sometimes he is in a good mood, having free time after accomplishing another case and telling you about it as he invites you to his room. Other times he is incredibly busy, schedule packed with deadlines racking up. He’s exhausted and doesn’t have enough social battery to hang out with someone for the whole day, and you completely understand that. Being a student, a detective, and a celebrity all at once is overwhelming.

You do your best to show that you care about him with those little gestures. Copying notes he might’ve missed, saving presentations, and making reviewers for him to easily study when finals are near. He’s incredibly thankful for that, and in turn, he shows that he notices those gestures of yours by doing the same thing to you. He’s never had anyone that cared about him this much, and that alone is enough reason for him to slowly fall in love with you. Akechi would pick up little details and your small quirks and keep them in mind—your go-to drink, favorite restaurant, how you act when you’re especially stressed, he takes lots of mental notes on your behavior so he is well prepared to handle your little emotional outbursts.

He finds it easy to charm people with his looks and very outgoing personality, he has used this to try and woo you to like him—maybe your actions towards him had some sort of meaning and that you liked him. Unfortunately, it completely backfired. He ended up catching feelings for you in the process as soon as he saw you as someone who liked him for who he was. For some odd reason, this detective is not exactly good with love.

Ryuji gets nervous around you. Sweaty palms and stuttering sentences—you have this effect on him and he can’t break out of it.

You outshone the sun with your presence alone. He is very much so affected by it, Ryuji has never noticed this before with anyone else he’s been with. You were kind, compassionate, you loved helping people around you. Seeing how you were as eager to take Kamoshida down with him—with the rest of the Thieves—made him think that the two of you were on the same page when it came to thinking.

Ryuji is… Not the best person to rely on for academics, but he surely makes up for it with other things. With his (pretty much) outgoing personality, he does find it easier to invite you out to little “friendly” dates, he’d say. Having Ryuji as your food buddy is a good experience, and having him as a friend is an even better one. When you’re in an especially rough slump, he’s willing to be there by your side as a personal hype man. He would say he delivers the best pep talks and speeches, putting corny jokes into them to lighten the mood, and it’s safe to say that you laugh easier with him too.

He’s good at cheering you up, he doesn’t like seeing you in a tough spot. He loves your company too—so to see or even hear that anything bad happened to you is a no-go for him. It takes a while for it to register that he started having feelings for you, he’s pretty oblivious, even to himself. So you may need to initiate the first move at times. Once it’s hit him, he’ll be a little bit more extra clingy, but a little distant at the same time. He’s a bit overwhelmed with the butterflies you give him, but give it time and he’ll do his best to make a move on you too.

Yusuke wonders if you’re sick of him yet.

He’s constantly asking you to model for his paintings, constantly bugging you to go with him to visit parks and shrines. Museum trips are definitely a must when you meet with him, and you most likely have to pay for the entrance fee as well. And the food, and the little souvenirs they have. (Well, the souvenirs were your choice. You thought he would appreciate the gift.) With him being short on money because of his passion, he understands if you ever stop wanting to respond to his messages. Surprisingly, you do not. You plan some of those hangouts yourself—and Yusuke is, well… Touched, you could say.

He shows his appreciation by being a little more open with you, trusting you with more of his feelings; ranting to you about certain missions you did in the mementos or how Joker is a bad driver, maybe how his art block is eating him alive and it's frustrating how he can’t find the proper inspiration. One topic about Madarame, how he still found the will to forgive him even after all he did to him and his mother. You listened, of course, and you’re glad he openly trusts you with these kinds of things.

Another way he shows that he is appreciative of what you do is with gifts. Traditional boxes of chocolates or handmade letters (made to look like calling cards) for holiday greetings, portraits of you, sketches of you, doodles of you… Suddenly everything about his life has been about you. He doesn’t dare show his sketchbook to everyone, god forbid. But you do notice him excessively asking you to pose in front of a gorgeous scenery in the park as he scribbles on a notepad. Weeks later, you never really see him make a painting of it despite saying so. He says it’s only to gain motivation, or to get himself warmed up to draw again—but truth be told; You just looked as gorgeous as the flowers that bloom in the bushes behind you, the clear, blue lake, and the sunny weather itself. Everything started to remind him of you, and he can’t help but pull up his contacts on his phone and call you again to have an “inspiration” walk.

this was absolutely adorable to write. can you tell who my favorite character is sob... anyway! this is my official debut to being a persona author too,, erm requests are open heart for persona 5! maybe not 3 yet. because i am in the very early stages.. ignore how i tagged this like an ao3 fi

[jonsrightrib]

I just like to think about Caleb, in the future, living in a little townhouse in Rexentrum. Full of arcane trinkets, and spell components and the jacket Beau forgot when she came round for dinner. Walls plastered with Jester and Luc’s drawings, cat beds everywhere, traditional heavy Zemnian blankets from Astrid and spiralling crochet throws clearly from Xhorhas and cushions Kingsley found amusing in various markets on a squidgy leather sofa and mismatched armchairs. An extension into the garden with a little classroom in it, papers never quite contained to a study full of books and a coat rack in the hallway that’s constantly in use. A hundred different teas in the cupboard and recipes scribbled in different hands on the backs of all different stained pages. The little garden with planters of veg and pots of herbs and a sun-bleached wooden bench and forget-me-nots growing along the fence. A spare room that’s never vacant long enough to gather dust. Marks in the floor from Fjord repeatedly forgetting he wasn’t on a ship and the vase Yasha is always refilling. Thank you cards and gifts from students - carved cat figurines and mugs and silly little jokes. A feather of Kiri’s on a beaded chain she made. Books and books and books, bought by himself and others on every topic under the sun.

A house where he can finally be surrounded by and reminded of all the lives Caleb touched.

[sumuraj]

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[vagabond-umlaut]

beckoning you, slowly, subtly

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Absence makes the heart yearn stronger.

Or: Gojo grapples with himself in the wake of you preparing to leave Tokyo Jujutsu High– in the wake of you preparing to leave him.

▸ Gojo x Fem!Reader; Former Teacher x Former Student; Reader has graduated from high school and is moving overseas for college; Gojo is 24-ish while Reader is 18; He's such a sad pathetic boi here; You think Reader is better? She's worse; Angst and Fluff; Use of humor as a coping mechanism [until it fails]; Very soft character study

▸ I wrote this as a prequel set minimum 10 years before the fic 'ensnared' -> You need not read that to read this, though. This is a standalone fic, through and through! 😊

Gojo feels nothing towards you.

No, he doesn't. He really, truly bears no feelings, whatsoever their nature might be, for you.

But... if it indeed is so... then why the hell are his knuckles so hesitant to strike the wood of your door, eh?

Gojo stays in this position for a beat or two more, before dropping his fist back to his side. Exhaling a mute yet deep sigh as his gaze travels over the tiny flowers and trees painted on the door. Next moves to the shoe rack beside, filled with neat rows of sneakers and flats. And finally reaches the cheery yellow paper taped to the door, your name written on it in smooth letters–

Before he can even realise it, the sorcerer finds his fingers over it, so wary yet wanting as they traverse the lines and the loops of the letters, eliciting a very soft murmur of the same from within, the latter darting past a dry throat and a heavy tongue...

"Sensei!"

The door suddenly springs open. Of course, with no one but you behind it.

Were here anyone else except him, Gojo is certain, they would have jumped feet in the air in response. Good thing, he isn't just some 'anyone else'. The sorcerer quickly withdraws his outstretched hand to stuff it into his pocket. And grins, the way he always does when caught in contemplation.

Big. Bright. Happy. So much so that it will either puzzle, or better yet, piss the other person off, eventually making them leave him to his devices...

"Heyyy," he drawls, decidedly making a show of his infamous breezy image— jarringly contrasting the manner his Six Eyes study your once decorated–now empty room, "Packing and everything's done, wow. Thought I might visit you one last time before you leave for..." Australia, but he chooses not to say it. Breezy image, remember?

Borrowing a beat to think– to make you think he's thinking, that is– the man resumes with a noisy chuckle, "Before you leave for wherever you're headed. When's your flight, by the way? Tonight or tomorrow morning?"

Whatever reply he might have been expecting from you, two shiny eyes and one o-shaped mouth certainly weren't on the list... You're pretty swift to erase them, however. Wiping your sweater paws over your face, you mimic his posture and grin back.

Cheeky, obviously, but much too strained than the ones you've given him so far... Your amused voice intrudes on his quiet scrutiny of you. "Why, Sensei? Missing me from this moment itself, eh?"

"Nah," he shoots back with a dismissive wave of his hand. Noting then ignoring the stinging twinge in the middle of his chest— no matter the fractional fall in your features; no matter anything, everything. "I'm literally waiting for when you'll walk out the school's torii gates— even more for when your plane will take off the tarmac and leave Japan! I was stuck teaching you for the better part of the past four years. What makes you think I'll miss you, heh. I'll be incredibly relieved, if anything."

"Ah," you say, following a moment's pause, "I see."

Quite an unenthusiastic reaction, if he's being honest; Gojo doesn't mind it, though. Not in the slightest.

Not even when he watches you regard him, oddly intense and pensive for a while, before you return to clearing your desk. So neat and tidy and dead with no books nor pens nor stray sketches strewn over its surface. The same way the rest of the room now seems: dreadfully dreary and dull, now that you– you with your bubbly self, shining in this damned dark school, jujutsu world– is moving away–

Oh.

Oh no.

You're moving away.

Which is... okay. Yeah, it's okay. But, but, but– "When will you come back?" The question escapes the confines of his mind into the stillness of your room, soon joined by another– one he bites his tongue and draws blood for, the second it leaves his mouth.

The tiny quaver in the words betraying the steady front he has put on very well– Until now. Until you— Too bad [or maybe, good] you've always read him rather well– so much so that you whirl round the instant the sentence flies into the foot in between, your crumpled features meeting his crumbling mask.

"You will come back, right?"

"I–" you start, eyes brimming with the same tears you wiped away so insistently then; he never hears you finish your answer, however.

Two tiny hands fling themselves round his neck, and before he can realise it, the sorcerer finds himself bent at the waist, nose nudging your temple while your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, the collar of his jacket growing progressively wet with every passing second.

The man stops himself from returning your embrace— You were his student. He was your mentor. Your door is open. His Six Eyes sense Shoko and Utahime coming this way. He isn't meant for such empty shows of sentiment. He isn't sure if your gesture is as unfeeling as he hopes it is—

Screwing his eyes shut, he sighs. Yet offers no resistance when he feels your fingers unclasp from his shoulders then move to his hands, lifting them to keep them lightly on the small of your back.

Oh, well, whatever.

Gojo is still certain he feels nothing towards you.

Except, maybe, this steely resolve of his, engraving itself a cliff-like niche in his mind: To protect. To cherish this sweet feeling of you both in each other's grasp.

▸ Divider by @hitobaby. Header from Pinterest. I don't own the characters used here.

▸ masterlist

[theemporium]

#13 with remus lupin 🥰

13. “You want me, don’t you?”

. 

It was an unspoken rule amongst the group that nobody ever mentioned the tension between you and Remus. 

No one was quite sure why but it seemed to be a rule that everyone mutually agreed on, despite never having actually discussed the topic—both between themselves and between you and Remus. They just watched the endless flirting and pining and lingering gaze and accepted that maybe one day, one of you would act upon your feelings. 

And to be completely honest, you thought the same. 

But months passed and doubts started to grow and now you weren’t too sure. 

He would always sit next to you at breakfast, making your coffee and placing it in front of your plate before you could even say ‘good morning’. He would always offer to carry your books and accompany you to the library when you wanted a silent study session that the Gryffindor common room could never offer. He would always find excuses to be physical with you, whether it was an arm tugging you closer when you felt cold or thighs pressed against each other because he insisted you squished into the spot next to him on the couch.

But he never once asked you on a date, or made a move, or even just admitted that he did, in fact, like you.

You started overthinking and worrying and the realisation that you loved your best friend started to stress you out when you weren’t totally sure where he stood, so you did the only reasonable thing anyone would do in your situation—you started to distance yourself from Remus. 

Remus noticed. Of course he noticed pretty quickly when one morning you suddenly started sitting beside James and Lily. And then the confusion turned to hurt when he noticed how you’d always sit next to Sirius in large group settings. And then his feelings bubbled into something more when he noticed you sneaking away to the library with other classmates or even by yourself. 

However, it wasn’t until two weeks later when Remus actually confronted you on the matter. 

The Gryffindor common room was bursting with music, cheers and cheap alcohol smuggled past the professors as they celebrated another win against Slytherin that blasted them ahead in the Quidditch cup this year. You were happily settled in the corner, half-drank drink in hand and cheeks flushed as you laughed and cheered James and Sirius dancing on the tables. 

You hadn’t even noticed Remus approaching until he was right beside you, his head dipping down as his whispered words met your ear. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Your head snapped around, lips parting in surprise as a wave of familiarity and longing hit you. Merlin, you had missed him more than you expected, and it made you feel a little pathetic. 

“Remus,” you said his name because you couldn’t say anything else.

“Glad to see you still remember who I am,” he answered with a hint of amusement in his tone. “I wasn’t sure considering you’ve done your best to ignore me the last fortnight.” 

Now, over the years, you had dealt with a lot of different moods from Remus. You prided yourself in being quite sufficient at devising how the wizard felt. Whether he was moody because he didn’t get enough sleep and just needed a nap to refresh himself. If he was anxious or hungry or pissed off or—most commonly—done with whatever nonsense the other boys were trying to rope him into (even if he would eventually agree). 

But this. 

This was something you knew all too well. Your mind racked for the date, counting back the date and you knew—you knew it was a few days until the next full moon. 

Remus Lupin was a kind man, a gentleman who respected everyone around him no matter what. But around the full moon—especially days before—he was something else. 

“C’mon, doll, y’know I don’t like it when you’re quiet,” he murmured, reaching to grip your chin between his fingers. “Why were you avoiding me?” 

“I, uh,” you cleared your throat, your cheeks flushing under his watchful gaze. His lips were twitched up a little, so close to a smirk. “I haven’t been avoiding—“

He lightly tsked, shaking his head softly. “Don’t lie to me, baby.” 

“Remus, it’s not your fault, I swear—“

“And now you’re avoiding the question,” he hummed and his thumb lightly traced the bottom of your lip. “Answer the question.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything, your heart racing and mind whirling at the way he was looking at you, the way his fingers traced along your lips and his body moved towards you until you were pressed against the wall, Remus blocking you out from the rest of the party. 

“You want me, don’t you?” he murmured, his eyes darkening at the way your tongue darted out to lick your lips. “Your pretty little head is just getting in the way, isn’t it?”

“How—“ 

“I like you too, doll,” he murmured, his hand now cupping your cheek as he tilted your head up to catch his gaze. “But I don’t like when you ignore me for two weeks for no bloody reason.” 

“M’sorry,” you whispered to him, swallowing a little when his thumb pushed against your lips, parting them and slowly sliding his finger into your mouth. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he mused as your lips wrapped around his finger with ease, your wide eyes staring up at him. “But it’s fine, I can think of plenty of ways for you to make it up to me, hm? What do you think?” 

All you could do was nod, letting him take your hand and guide you far away from the party to show you just how much he enjoyed being ignored.

.