#(but it was really compelling and I need to return to it one day)

[dunadaan]

I’ve been feeling Créa creep up on me as of late and today I went back and reread my little document where I type up random ideas for scenes/fics and I was like. Wow who wrote this. This is really good. Why isn’t there more of this damn. But also wow I really put miss créa through the blender and she is a fine red mist a lot. But that is the life of a ranger…and even when she’s not a ranger anymore I press blend on high and she is sadly used to that

[calebrity]

father figure

sylus x female reader

he takes you in, he feeds you, he gives you a home when the world around you can no longer make sense of the word- and yet you’re just as much of a grounding force in his life. when the frenzy hits, though, he can’t make heads or tails of anything; all he knows is that you’re a pretty, fleshy thing and he aches to sample it.

content smut/nsfw, daddy kink, dilf/guardian! sylus, so by a stretch it can be pseudocest, noncon, soft! sylus but turns into frenzied! sylus, yandere themes, piv, rough handling, loss of virginity, some angst because of guilt/disillusion, codependency, age gap (but both parties are 18+), biting, dark content, almost 10k words

sidenote i could only resist the catch-22 sylus agenda for so long. it’s not fully canon compliant but its heavily based around it. so yes sylus has his iconic mullet and he’s a lil baby crashout in this. also no this isnt even the sylus bday fic i had in mind but if i dont get that one out in time then this will be the substitute 😣 anways, i hope u enjoy my friends <3

You don’t remember much, growing up. Beyond him, at least.

The world goes to shit with the predators and your parents fade out of the equation- and you’re left alone for much of your youth until an ominous man comes along and takes you under his wing— but only reluctantly.

For a while afterward, you think he still grudges you for the day you, in one way or another, managed to fall under his custody, becoming a knot in his neat web of plans and purposes. Deep down, you got the feeling that he didn’t need you as much as you did him; despite his choosing to keep you around, it was likely more out of guilt than any genuine affection- but you’d decided that was okay.

He saved your life, pulled you from the fire before you could really feel its burn, and you’d be the last to make complaint for your circumstances.

There’d be no circumstances if not for him.

But he tenderizes. It turns to be an open thing, his fondness.

He takes you in when you’re fifteen. Since then- throughout the course of around six years, he’s become softer. Less ambiguous to you. There’s things he keeps under wraps and always will despite the harmless pestering on your end (like questions regarding his work, the silhouettes that trail you both constantly— and the curious glances thrown to the blood on his collar after he returns late in the night). But he’s not longer as obscure to you, his person.

Trust blooms in the parts of you where an impoverished lifestyle of scraping by carved out gaps. And you’re used to hiding- that’s not much different now- but instead of diving for shady alleyways, you find refuge in him.

He’s dangerous. That was established early on; since the first moment you met him, really, knelt before him in fear after grabbing his pant leg for help (an action he mistook for a foolish attempt at pickpocketing), that was obvious.

He’s threatening.

Never to you. Not now.

Sylus is a man of impressive decorum and somehow all the blood coating his hands doesn’t take away from his class— he extends those hands to you, callouses and all, and gives you a patient look as if he’s expecting you to take them.

At sixteen you start calling him dad (more of an accident than anything else- it’s not a conscious thing that compels you to view him as something paternal).

He doesn’t object to it.

Things fall into place in weird ways.

When all the pieces settle, you find yourself looking at a semblance of a home— a safe place that the self-proclaimed beast curated with his own paws through painstaking efforts. (Whether you were fully cognizant of them or not didn’t matter: he tried his damnedest to be what you needed, and could only hope it was enough.)

The two of you are always on the move. He barges into your room panting at night and tells you to hurry and pack a bag, or just outright scoops you up in his arms and tucks you into the car’s backseat seconds before you hear the tires revving off. Your surroundings are perpetually changing around you and yet he remains the same; a citadel, a rock in your life.

Sylus provides an air of safety. Despite it all, the abrupt ‘field trips’ (at least, that’s what he called them when you were a bit younger) taken to ward enemies off your location, the bullets that fling by your periphery on furtive nights out and the red threads that coil behind him like talons- destroying anything before it can so much as harm a hair on your pretty head- you feel safe with him.

Predator or not- he’s good to you, a lighthouse fixed firmly amidst rolling smog and cyclones.

You can’t count a time he’s lost control or been unprepared for a frenzy, and he’s taken the proper precautions to keep you from him whenever he suspects one is coming on. The broken activator just solidifies his vigilance. And he’s instructed you plenty on what to do if he does lose it, God forbid, albeit your agreement to it was utterly uneasy.

He figures he’ll spare you the little horror show, he’d joked just to smooth out the worried crinkle in your brow.

Yet- Figures he’ll spare you your life, is what he doesn’t say, despite it being a shared thought between you both.

He teaches you how to wield a gun early on.

You’d told him you didn’t wanna use it, but something as trivial as guilt had no place in Linkon as it collapsed into decadence and carnal ruin. And something like sympathy, he’d also added, was stupid. An invitation to get yourself killed.

(Silly, that. Silly and hypocritical of the man who takes pity on runts.)

Conversation is kept at a minimum at first, and clipped, but he sprinkles in tips and tricks at self preservation— life hacks in the most literal sense— and he keeps an eye on you. Watching always. He makes sure you’re holding up well and even lets you hold down the fort while he’s gone doing God knows what. It feels like a privilege when he entrusts things to you, no matter how seemingly small.

Sylus is special to you. You love him as a teacher, a protector, a warm chest to snuggle up to on the sofa when you’re restless and can’t sleep but you know he’s downstairs with a cushion waiting—

You love him as a father, too.

Not everything about him is clear to you, though... You learn many things but one you have more difficulty understanding is the way he perceives you.

You don’t know if he loves you as a daughter, or a welcome nuisance, or a stray (because he has a penchant to root for the underdog). At first, you questioned if he even loved you at all.

But you’re older now,… and you see it, the heart he wears on his sleeve to bleed for you. He cares for you. And he’s there for you.

And when he asks you to leave with him- less of a hurried demand now and more of a gentle, imploring breath amidst chittering sounds of crickets and night bugs as he stands as a single shadow against your bed frame—

You take his hand.

✦

Boxes piled in every other corner, the building feels less like a home and more like a warehouse- a very tiny, cozy warehouse, with each of your scents intertwining in the unassuming spaces where you meet.

It’s no feat of architecture- just a small apartment nestled in the innards of the southern district, and it certainly isn’t a product of exorbitant spending (the place is deceptively… humble, for what Sylus can afford), but for what it is, you like it.

You’ve dwelled at several different addresses before, and you expect this arrangement will be more of the same. You stopped mourning over the loss of houses that could’ve been homes some time ago; you bounce between streets and domains like rabbits. However, there’s a strange comfort that builds in your chest as weeks pass and, for this reason or that, your guardian shows no signs of jilting the flat.

One day, he calls you to the living room after you’ve showered, and he sits you down.

You lie in a makeshift cage between his long legs as they hang over the couch, one hand smoothing over your damp hair while the other brushes it through.

He’s never in much of a hurry to speak, so when you reach for the TV remote to fill the silence, and he stops you- you concede to the quiet, knowing whatever he’ll say to break it will be worth some thought.

Still, he seems more contemplative than usual. It warrants pause on your end.

Internally, you consider your belongings- the deliberate choice you made to keep most of them boxed- and find relief in the fact that you’ll have less to pack if Sylus were to inform you right now of another move.

It’s a little sad, but it’s just the way things are. You won’t cry over the hand that you were dealt. If nothing else, you’re just thankful, what with the squeeze this city of sin has on its people, that somewhere along the way, Sylus came to loosen you from it.

You owe him. But he never names his price.

Long, rough fingertips meticulously weaving through your hair, gentle despite the callouses as he twists it into braids, you fall into the belief that he won’t.

Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you can’t find much in you to debunk it save for the tiny, deep-rooted fear that one day you’d wake up, and- just like your parents on the day of outbreak- he’d be gone. There was plenty of doubts in your head, but most if not all were born from an old trauma, and Sylus seemed… content, weirdly enough, at your side.

It becomes an easier and easier thing to believe that’s where he’ll remain.

“Sweetie,” he eventually says, “I wanted to… discuss something, with you.”

You perk under his hands, spine straightening. You give him a sidelong glance over your shoulder and find his eyes, a sharp red, surprisingly mellow as they flit across the bridge of your nose, reading your expression carefully.

“What’s wrong?”

That (the instinctive response to believe something’s gone amiss) almost brings a wry smile to his lips, but he wets them a moment later and opens them to speak. “Nothing. Not this time,” he explains smoothly. “You… You’re used to moving around, the both of us are. I’m sure it’s been… tiring, at the best of times.”

“Well,” you start as a reply, but find your speech cropped short because you’ve no real way to deny that: it was exhausting. Of course it was. But wherever he went, you’d follow. That’s just how it’s always been.

Besides, if not fixed firmly at his side- you’d be choosing the hell that is overrun, lawless Linkon; to be tossed back into its maw for the predators or, if you’re more fortunate, a not as brutal death by starvation.

Noting your silence- your agreement- Sylus continues.

He ties off the end of the tuft with a colorful band and moves to work on the other, surprisingly deft. He’s only done your hair a million times- but still, his odd expertise in it was as surprising as it was endearing. The fact that you’re twenty-one now doesn’t change this common arrangement- or the mutual fondness the two of you have for it. You like when Sylus dries or does your hair, and evidently, he does too, for whatever reason.

Maybe it’s just therapeutic for him to feel something soft in his hands. He’s better acquainted with the opposite.

“So what if we were to stay?”

The words take a moment to click.

Because you don’t stay anywhere. You don’t stay, you just run and drive and hide. Live life perpetually on the down low. On the run.

Sylus does not settle.

Still, his voice, thoughtful and velvety, rumbles behind you in a continuous, comforting sound and forces you to take what he’s saying seriously.

“This place- you don’t dislike it, do you? It’s nice. Nothing gaudy or impressive. But it’s… homey,” he muses aloud. “Off the books. You’re safe here. Safer than what the other addresses had to offer, at least.”

You ponder it for all of five seconds before answering. And to be fair it’s not actually hard to; an inner part of you assumed you’d be on the move for all your life, but you’re weirdly pleased at the idea of… not being on the move for all your life.

Some anchorage sounds nice.

You tuck your head to your chest. “I… I think I would like that.”

He perks a bit. You feel it in his hands when they pause, done with their task, and one shifts to rest on your crown.

His knees, flanking either side of you, close in. Without thinking, you latch onto one’s calf and lean into it as you grab the remote. This time he lets you.

“Yeah?” He goes, a little breathless. “Are you sure? You realize it’d be a little more… permanent.”

“Okay.”

Sylus looses a sigh somewhere behind you.

“What I’m getting at is that you’re no longer a little squirt in desperate need of me,” he clarifies in a more pointed tone, and you resist arguing that- you have no time to, really, “so if you want to leave, you can feel free to. Don’t think you’re being shackled here by me.”

For as genuine as his words sound, you quickly cotton onto the expectancy that undercoats them- the mite of something that almost makes you believe he’s waiting for affirmation on your end. A rare thing. Usually it’s the other way around.

It pulls a huff from you, though. Peels of laughter rattle from the screen in front of you (he managed to unpack your TV, but as it stands, most of the house is still pretty bare) but you ignore your favorite show for the moment to turn and frown at him.

You grab his knee while you do, saying, “Of course I don’t think that. If anything, I feel like I’m holding you back.”

Scarlet eyes blink and widen, but just slightly. White hair falls over his brow (his locks loosening from gel after a long day) when he gives his head a tilt. After a beat, he laughs at you, a deep, rumbling sound- and pats your head directly after to fix the flustered knot in your brow.

“Well, I guess we’re both wrong then, hm?

He stoops forward to kiss your cheekbone- a chaste, quick thing- and then he gets up with a grunt to head for the hall.

You watch him with a strange flutter in your chest (one that you label affection; not a wrong guess but it also fails to fully encompass just what he means to you) and stare at the wall even as he disappears behind it.

But he calls over his broad shoulder to you, “Don’t sit too close to the screen, by the way. Someone tends to get headaches when watching cartoons.”

Crossing your arms with a pout, you lean your back into the seat of the couch and splay your legs out on the fluffy rug. You’re glad for that being unpacked, but quickly find yourself planning for the following days and all you’ll have to take out and assemble- which admittedly wasn’t much, but it was still enough to trigger your lazy streak.

Sometimes you just want to lounge around all day and do nothing: a fantasy that feels more possible after your guardian’s suggestion.

You holler back, “Oh, just go to sleep, old man.” Distantly, a door opens, but it doesn’t close.

He’ll be out later.

✦

He doesn’t come out later, contrary to your belief, but his open door does make a little more sense to you when it’s deep into the night and you emerge from your own room, scared, and traipse down the hall.

The remnants of a nightmare that felt too-real grip you. Five fingers on, they don’t let go.

But Sylus- the quasi foreboding man who took you in- knows how to pull you from a pinch.

You seek his warmth as the swath of wooden tiles cooling the balls of your feet blends into carpet- that of his bedroom- navigating in total darkness as you enter.

“Sylus-?” You can’t even get the word out before he startles upright and you hear the clink of something steely and dangerous—

“I-It’s me, daddy!” You assuage quickly, voice a frail, shaken sound that’s made even smaller by the dregs of a bad dream that still hangs fresh over your mind.

Even as the images peter out— claws wrapping around your throat, a dumpster rattling as you and other ragamuffins brawl over veritable trash as food, the roar of a predator as it holds you down, saliva dribbling into your ear— the emotions are harder to shake.

You feel dizzy and a little out of place as he lets out a deep sigh of relief, flicking on the lamplight, and blinks heavily at you.

The fingers that have dipped beneath the mattress retract and return to his lap. You observe it with a relaxing of your shoulders.

Some of the tension fades from him too, but not all of it.

He asks, concern entangled with gravely bits of exhaustion, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

You say nothing, your own voice failing you as you mentally struggle to not only find your thoughts but string them together in a coherent way.

Everything around you was blurry. Felt unstable. A cold, clammy sweat licks up your palms and forehead. The ground beneath you grows a mouth and threatens to swallow you whole- the shadows in the corner ominous and great, watching.

Of course, it was only a nightmare, an unpleasant dream that you’d laugh about and forget easily enough come morning. But right now, it’s not. It’s vivid and horrifying and amalgamating into the atoms of reality to create a special kind of paranoia. It won’t let you sleep tonight.

…Not unless something’s there to hold you, at least.

Sylus’s own voice is groggy, a bit confused. Almost unthinkingly, though, he extends a hand to welcome you.

“C’mere,” he lifts the blanket and you’re instantly drawn to the empty space beside him.

You assume it with eagerness and all but barrel into his chest, punching out a grunt from him before he chuckles faintly, reaching over to pull on the thin, beaded chain. Darkness paints across your surroundings but a small highlight swims in cherry-red eyes as they soften at you.

Strong, lean arms wrap around you, helping you burrow into him without objection.

“Was it a nightmare?” He murmurs just above a whisper, voice warm but rough as the fluffy comforters, the same ones he tucks you both under, hug him back in. “Haven’t had one of those in a while, hm?”

He feels you jerkily nod under the dip of his chin and makes a sighing response. Callous finger pads close around your back and rub little circles there meant to soothe. “S’okay, kitten. It’s over now,” he breathes, languidly pecking your temple with open lips, smearing away the part of your fringe that’s been pasted there by a cold sweat.

He has this weird habit of taking you under his wing despite his serrated edges and the natural intensity of his stone face; right now, you curl up closer to his breast, finding a tenderness he perhaps only reserves for you, and he exhales overhead.

Fears are fast to flee, wrapped up by him. As moments pass, and your erratic heart rate resumes a more normal pace, you sound your gratitude in a low murmur. Vaguely, you wonder if you’d also stirred Sylus from a nightmare of his own upon stumbling into his room, because his own pulse- typically extremely slow- undulates in his sternum.

It thumps against your ear, creating a cadence almost considered fast. A touch uneven and a lot loud.

“…Thank you, daddy,” you mouth against him, nuzzling into his pajamas- a thin, linen shirt that oozes a domesticity you’re hard-pressed to come by.

Beneath your ear— a skip.

“For… for always being there for me.”

It sounds a little sappy, but in the moment, none of that phases you. Evidently- with a low, contented hum emanating from deep within his chest- it doesn’t phase Sylus, either.

You wonder if it’s your imagination or a real, bonafide smile that curves against your head.

“Well, that’s where I belong, isn’t it? At your side,” he murmurs, and after a beat you feel his lips press a kiss to your crown, mild but lingering. “And you belong at mine, if you want it. I’ll always be here for you, sweetie,” he promises, “no matter what.”

Finally, you let your eyes flutter shut.

✦

Weeks pass. They do so pleasantly; slowly, but not in a bad way.

The quiet- mainly the lack of wandering from point A to B all for the sake of anonymity- is a welcome reprieve. Some doubts linger surrounding the agreement you and Sylus came to, but it becomes a more solid idea in your head as days pass without interuption:

This can be home.

So you start acting like it.

When noon hits, you don’t go with Wolfe, Sylus’s most trusted contact, for the usual training session when he swings by- bidding him farewell with a small wave- but instead stay back to work on the house.

Noon comes and goes. The sky turns dusky and your belly howls for food but you pay none of it any mind, too engrossed to care.

Because this is exciting.

You decorate all throughout the day, unwrap furniture from cardboard and feel anticipation swell inside you. You sing and twirl.

Before Sylus returns, you buzz with excitement while picturing his face upon walking in- not to a barren space but to a cozy one- and the rare show of his surprise. It’ll probably be nothing beyond a flare of his eyes or a soft sound of acknowledgement, but you pine for it all the same.

You’d like to make him happy. To make him feel more comfortable, at home. Especially after a long day spent weaseling throughout the blind spots of the city. He’s only allowed so much time to kick off his shoes and relax, and you want to highlight those moments for him.

It’s the least you can do, you think with a small smile, stepping down from a stool to appraise a photo you just hung (one with his hand around your waist, pulling you to his side— a would-be perfect photo if not for the crow that blurs in the corner of the lens).

Focused, you stick your tongue out and square your fingers, closing one eye because that’ll definitely help you make a better judgement on whether or not the frame is straight enough—

It slants sharply when the front door opens and slams.

You jolt, ripped from your small trance as you spin your head towards the entryway, only an iota prepared to run for the hallway and bird dive into the closet- that’s if you even make it in time. Bullets will always be faster than your little legs and if you’re correct in your belief that it’s those shady men who hate Sylus, come to retaliate against him, then there’s no way they’ll deliberate and give you a chance to escape—

Sock-clad feet halt on the floor. The stop in momentum hurls your head inches beyond your axis of balance, but the figure that freezes in the threshold, familiar, tall but hunched over, somehow seems more surprised.

Not at the new touch-ups on the walls and the neat, embellished rooms- no, but at you.

Trudging into the apartment, he looks worse for wear and you take the sight of him in with a different, growing kind of alarm.

Your shoulders ease up, just slightly. It’s not an intruder, a pack of big, unscrupulous men barging in to avenge some grievance related to the assassin who took you in- which is relieving, but the concern is tight in your brow all the same.

When he speaks, his voice is ragged. Half man half animal.

“Sweetie- what are you-?” He cuts himself short to make a sound of displeasure that comes from deep within his throat. Raw, brutal.

“You shouldn’t be here-!” You give a little flinch in response to the ferocity in his tone, phlegm catching in his trachea before he looks down, shakes his head with a hard blink, and stomps into the bulwarks of the apartment.

“Dad, you-?”

Ignoring your startle (perhaps blind to it; you think his mind is on other, more inward matters as something wild glints in his eye- paired with a conflict that worsens with each heaving breath), Sylus grabs your wrist, and he does it tightly.

“There’s no time- I need you to hurry. Help me with my suppressants- now!”

Something clicks in you, then, a distant memory lighting itself from a foggy space of remembrance.

“And kitten, listen to me. If I ever… lose control,” he starts, words a gentle, almost resigned mumble against a backdrop of city sirens and a snarling engine as the car veers into a more secluded road. You stare at his profile with a flicker of unease. But he remains composed, saying as if it’s a topic as simple as the weather, “I need you to handle me,” he glances at you, gaze steady, a brilliant, solid red, even as your mouth opens to bluster out a denial of that possibility.

“But- your suppressants- We can use them—“

“Maybe,” he turns to look out the windshield, at the road ahead. Dust and debris scrape in the wind. Even for the southern district, the place was ratty, but this is where the deal was to be had, and Sylus needed those vials before morning. “But things don’t always go as planned, you know that, sweetie. So… If something ever fails, or I become immune to the dosages— I taught you how to shoot.”

“I- I wouldn’t shoot—!“

He snaps his head over and barks, fingers whiting around the wheel. “You would! You would and you will.”

Startled, your vision blurring despite the hand you close firmly over your breast- as if balling your emotions in your palm, holding them at bay- you swallow. Scarlet eyes ripple, irises dancing around a black orb as it shrinks and becomes frantic. Unease flutters in your chest as his cold instructions turn over in your mind- but for all his hammering of them into you- you don’t bite the hand that feeds. It’s just not in your nature.

You don’t even bite the hand if it asks you to.

Begs.

Noting your shock, the stunned expression that barely masks a confused kind of hurt, your guardian blinks. Sighs and looks away.

Exhaust blows out from the back of the vehicle; you catch it in dark tails from the rear view mirror, in whiffs as the air around you becomes sour and noxious.

“I taught you to shoot,” he says again after a beat. Softer, this time. “When it gets to the point where it really matters,… don’t let your daddy down, okay? Please, sweetie. Just… agree on this one thing.”

For once in a handful of years, not considered easy by any means- but enjoyable at his side- you stare at the man who took you in and find him cruel.

You dip your chin, more out of hurt than anything else, highly uncertain as dread contricts your lungs, and nod.

It does what it was meant for: It placates him. You think it even convinces him.

He’s putting all his faith in it, in that wordless assent you’d given him years ago, for the sake of the present.

Though, Sylus still thinks it’s manageable. That there’s still a shot that this frenzy- triggered by an enhancer after a gloved hand squeezed glass to the point of bleeding, vindictive and bent on getting the last laugh- can be resolved. So you hurry to lay him on the couch as his breathing picks up, scuttling towards his room before coming back with arms full of a briefcase.

You crash to the rug and prop the case on the coffee table, fishing out a syringe before sidling up to him and taking his arm.

With some resistance- and a grunt that sounds more wolfish than man- he lets you, and you line up the needle with his arm. You say a curse under your breath when tears smear across your lids and make fuzzy the room around you.

“Hurry,” he rasps.

Shakily, you dig at the crook of his arm with your thumb to plump up the vein before- with little coordination- you feed the needle in with a sharp breath.

It mingles with Sylus’s as he makes an uncomfortable noise, the glittery fluid disemboguing into his bloodstream.

Split seconds feels like eons.

Time moves slow as molasses and you chew on your lip until something like metal sours your tongue.

Between fingers that tremble wildly just to keep it inside him, steadily injecting him with the suppressant, and a heart that pounds with uncertainty in your ears— given no assurance whatsoever that you’re not too late to pacify him— you don’t realize all the gawking on his part.

The ardency in his gaze, fleetingly tender, as it remains fixed to you. Some unspoken battle happening behind it.

…The darker thing, with a name you can’t assign, is winning out.

He feels it, too; conscious thought lending itself to his baser person— instincts, ugly and primal and overwhelming— all against his will.

“You were supposed to be with Wolfe,” He forces out with great difficulty, sweat beading his temple. He’s hot to the touch, skin like a kiln, baking your fingertips as they hover over him.

Light as feathers, you still feel the burn.

“I would’ve never came.”

Thickly, you swallow, rubbing his forearm soothingly even as the veins there bulge and glow, putting a fright in you that you do well to ignore.

He needs you right now. He needs you and you won’t fail him.

“Shh, shh,” you hush, folding your upper half over the sofa to plant your head against his shoulder.

One hand, between your bodies, gradually plies him with the suppressant; the other slips to the nape of his neck and intwines with his mullet, tugging softly.

He lets out a soft sound at that, temporarily appeased.

“It’s okay, daddy. It’s okay.”

You need it to be true.

For what it’s worth, he does seem just a touch comforted by that.

It’s not lasting.

He’s dangerous, and he knows. He’s losing out to the predator instinct, and he knows and he’s terrified but he remains rigid. Has to.

“I want you to inject all of it into my veins,” a sonorous voice rings at your ear, dry, open lips moving against your head as he smushes a kiss there. You think it’s more subconscious a move than anything as the cognizant trace in him fades out, albeit you still appreciate it.

A large hand, hanging off the couch- shaking not because it’s weak but because it’s trying its best to be- shifts to rest over your back.

He continues, “And then I want you to leave me. If we’re lucky, I’ll pass out and ride it through that way…”

Clenching your jaw, you nod against his neck, under his chin, and bite down on a whimper.

“You’ll be okay, daddy. Tomorrow morning, you’ll be all better. The suppressants w-will make you sleepy, and—“

Something surges in him, then, a growl cutting through your eardrums as you flinch back and he- before the second little vial even reaches the halfway tick- knocks it from your hands.

It collides with the coffee table and shatters.

The rug- the fluffy one you’d happily picked out with him some months back- darkens with a splotch you can’t easily scrub out.

Like an animal in a cage he’s revolted. You’re not naive enough to not see the movement for what it is; no matter how watered down, it’s still a version of it: a beast lunging.

Whatever’s left of his conscience is just barely barring that monster off, but as you fall back on your ass and gape at him, you realize with horror he will not turn out as the victor.

Fear brews in your belly. Butterflies swarm the pit of it, leaving nausea in the wake of their wings as they make quick work of your bravery- or the pretense you held of it.

A drop of blood pricks from the crook of his arm, the syringe made useless as it lay broken on the carpet: you watch it with shock, numbness almost, before looking up to him.

He forces himself to go recumbent, five fingers splayed over his face. The gaps in them, though, reveal grimacing, pearly teeth.

Canines bared no different than a hungry predator, defensive and bold.

Unlike you, very real in their display.

For a number of seconds, you do not breathe. Eyes wide and scared.

“Go,” he croaks out after a moment.

It takes longer than it should to register.

When it does, you gasp as if stirred from a bad dream. It’s precious- the sign he gives that he’s still in control- and you don’t take it for granted. You rise to wobbling knees, frenetically glancing between the dazzling shards and his heaving chest.

You extend a cautionary, worried hand, something in you utterly wrecked at the sight of him- your savior, your shield, your father figure- crumpled in on himself.

“Daddy—“

“Go!”

Silence strobes across the living room, but just for a second. It bites into you where it settles.

Unthinkingly, you turn. His words and their grating tone cut better than any knife ever could. Tears clinging to your lashes, you steel your legs (because they’re gelatinous beneath you), whip around, and start for the front door.

You don’t know where you’ll go apart from Sylus tonight, but that’s all to be figured out later after you calm your nerves down a bit and convince yourself it’ll all be fine—

The couch groans atop its wooden frame.

Suddenly, a hand snatches around your wrist, scorching hot, and when you swirl around, his head is bowed.

A whit of hope strings you along—

“D-Dad?” You breathe, “Are you okay now?”

Scarlet eyes peer up from a silvery curtain of hair, aflame, near glowing, and you let out a gasp.

—And drops you.

“I thought you wanted to help little old me? So…” he muses darkly, “where are you going?”

The reality of your situation takes a second to catch up to you.

Something that can accurately be called fear clamps in your chest— not for what he could be but for what he is now. Some change has happened in him, some sickness taken root, and until it passes, you’ll be victim to the beast that wears your savior’s face.

Stunned, you listen. “Has your father ever left you hanging? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same?”

“Sylus-“

He tuts, a belittling sound. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. C’mere, kitten, sit.” Long fingers entwine around your wrist and you’re reminded of wolf paws trampling over twigs in forests. It’s not unbearably tight a grip, not yet, at least, but he’s certainly applying more pressure than what he generally does.

You wet your dry lip, dread wringing you from the inside out. You feel oddly parched.

“But Sylus- you’re not-“

“Sit,” he suddenly growls, something undeniably dark glittering in his eye.

You’re without opportunity to argue or even try to reason with him, because he yanks you into his lap and loops his arms around your middle.

You liken yourself to a bird in a cage. His limbs your bars and your soft sounds of fear like twittering.

Using the last of your rational thought- your brain losing ground to fight or flight instinct- you try to think back to his instructions (funereal as they were), but find yourself creating other options. Even if you did want to shoot Sylus like he’d made you promise all those years ago, it’s not like you’ve got a gun lying around for it… No, the one he gave you (the one you keep as a token of him, like a locket) is sandwiched between your mattress and its framework.

A-And that’s where it’ll stay. No matter what.

Because you don’t bite the hand that feeds. You don’t bite the hand that feeds even after it pleads to be.

You decide, right then, that it’s better to play dead.

Sat perfectly still in his lap, your plan succeeds for all of half a minute before a hitch appears. To begin with, it was one born out of desperation, with low expectancy- but damn it all you still flinch when you become aware of his teeth and your proximity to them.

Fangs brush against your throat, uncomfortably sharp. It raises alarm in you, but it’s quickly lost in the other warning bells clanging in your skull.

You shiver. To your horror, Sylus chuckles.

��Are you scared I’ll hurt you?” He murmurs, breath searing your neck where it fans against it. It’s labored and fast; the depravity amplified against your earlobe.

Somewhere in you, you find the courage to answer. “A- A little,” you feebly admit. “I couldn’t get all the suppresants in.”

Sylus hums, low and satisfied, but you don’t quite miss the undercurrent of decadence in it- as much as you might want to.

“Good,” he quips. “Frenzies feel so much better without the pushback. You shouldn’t have injected any in me in the first place.”

“But you said-“

“It’s in my DNA to want to bite. It’s a little cruel to keep me from that… don’t you think?”

A debate happens within you, short-lived but tumultuous. You deliberate on answering because really, how can you? What is there to say that can temper him when he’s like this? A predator in the flesh.

And the thing about predators is that, somewhere in the equation, there must be prey—

But no. No- you refuse to believe he’ll succumb to that animalism, not when he’s more or less like blood to you. Your trust for him runs as thick as it, anyway. Blood is thicker than water, and poison, too- so the toxic lilt in his voice means nothing. Nothing at all.

You swallow, unable to offer any real reply. “I- I-“

“No,” he snips, a palm drifting lower. Positively impatient. Ever the obliging, albeit sometimes brusque man, the Sylus you know is nowhere to be found.

“Tell daddy what you really think of him. Think he’s a monster, don’t you?”

Finally, he nips at your neck, cutting himself loose from the self restraint he stubbornly moored himself to, groaning at the softness. Seamlessly, he suckles a hickey into your throat and you mewl.

The single thread of whatever the hell it is that’s keeping him at bay- his buried conscience, perhaps- snaps.

He makes a hot, ferocious sound, pawing at your breast now, drawing a startled yelp from you that his gums throb at. “Should he act accordingly? Hm? Use your words, kitten.”

Words? No. No, you think actions would suit you better- he’s not in his right mind right now and you need to leave like he’d ordered before your image of him, the one you’d put on a precious pedestal, collapses.

Daringly, you get up to try and bolt out again, mind single as your eyes dart to the front door.

If you can just leave the apartment, maybe you can lose him in the weaving, shady paths that are labyrinthine Linkon. Surely, he’ll find someone else, someone deserving (culpable men are not hard to come by here), and make them his glorified plaything instead.

By the time the sun rises, he’ll have woken from this awful, twisted trance—

He lets out a roar, angrily snatching you back onto the couch.

This time, though, there’s no semblance of freedom as he pins you under him, hovering close enough to bump his long nose against yours as he grips your hips tight enough to bruise.

“Nawh, you wound me, sweetie… And here I thought…” he rasps, ruby eyes glossing as the lid droops, blatantly ogling your jostling breast, “You had daddy’s better interest in mind.”

That’s unclear. But yours? Your better interest?

There it is again- blitzing across your frazzled conscience, stark against the dreadful haze: Play dead.

You do.

The blow will come, that’s definite. But if you play your cards right, maybe, a small hope in the back of your head says, you can lessen it.

You go limp beneath him and his hands. Even as they grope your tits through your shirt before he quickly foregoes that charade in favor of ripping open the collar, you remain still. You clamp your eyes shut and bite down on a pathetic sound.

Each and every one of your intentions evade riling him up, and yet your mere presence, pliant but shivering beneath him, does a good enough job at that on its own.

Still, as his energy builds into a devastating force, you’re quietly thankful for the amount you did manage to get in with the syringe. Likely, you realize with a heavy swoop of your heart, the determining factor in your life.

H-How much was it again-? Two vials? Or a vial and a half-?

Briefly, you glance over to the table where the case lay, open but half empty, and contemplate something stupid before the man- beast- above you laughs. Asserts himself in your face.

He’s all you see when he says, “I guess you don’t have your better interest in mind, either. Hm, kitten?”

And you’re all he smells, feels, knows, as he ruts his clothed cock against your thigh and you feel the swollen bulge. You shiver again. He’s really, really hard and is he actually planning to fuck you with that-?

You?

The pleasured, but not close to satisfied, grunt he makes says yes. Yes, absolutely he’s going to fuck you.

Rip off your panties after uncivilly pulling off your shorts and stuff his flushed length inside with a—

—“Fuck, kitty!”

He’s met with resistance.

And you forget your plan completely, terror taking over entirely as you begin to wriggle and plead for him to hold off, to reconsider— you’re a virgin and he’s mean and given your relationship, you two were never supposed to end up parallel to one another on the couch, desire brewing between your naked bodies. Well, you’re naked- or growingly; but Sylus isn’t.

Scraps of leather cling to sturdy, lean muscle, but he’s broiling in them still, skin licked with sweat. Evidently, heat has fried his neurons- his memory of himself- too.

“Please, daddy, I- I’ll—“

Oh, break. You’ll one hundred percent break but you keep from saying it aloud because you suspect it’ll warm his blood all the more. A correct guess, but it’s a little late for taking back what you did say. Sylus cottons onto it and groans.

“Don’t do this, Sylus,” you try to remind him of who he really is, even if your voice is small and untrustworthy. “Y-You don’t have to. J-Just remember who you are- who I am!”

His precious girl.

Once, he’d even said, his treasure.

Your heart stings.

Taking out the engorged, weeping head of him and rubbing it at your mostly-dry entrance (in hopes to prime it after failing to push his way inside), he’s hardly lucid as you babble.

Cute… But unimportant, he decides.

…Yet, he does somehow find it in him to look up, and you do find a trace of… something in him, human-like and guilty, when he does. It’s quicksilver. Gone when you blink.

Your pussy lips try to spit him out but it just works him up further.

The darkness in his gaze returns in tenfold.

He manages a scoff. “Oh, c’mon. Of course I remember~ You’re daddy’s little girl, aren’t you?” He hums meanly, suddenly immune to the wide, kicked look you send him. It’s always done wonders on him before, but you’re met with failure.

“So how come you can’t take his cock? I know you could, if you just tried a little harder. Relaaax. Ease up. From now on, someone’s gonna have to be the calm one between us when I get into my frenzies. You can be that, right?” That sentence instills dismay in you for many reasons, but you have no time to think on them.

He husks, “Now, go on. Help guide me in.”

You don’t reach a hand down between you two like perhaps he wanted, but you do hear a faint squelch right then as he cants his hips forward an inch, and it does make you gasp. Despite yourself, you slick up for him- for God knows what reason, maybe just as self preservation or some deeper, pitiful attempt to please him- and it becomes obvious.

Sylus notes it with a shaky breath that blends with his other labored, ragged ones, and a grin that’d better suit a bastard.

He delves inside, by a small miracle, but you can’t stop from crying when he reaches halfway in and blood rings around the thick base of him. Inwardly, you try to separate the sin from the face, telling yourself between strained breaths that he’s not in control, that this frightening, terribly unfamiliar side isn’t the real him.

You whimper more when you realize you’ll be squinting at him for months to come, losing sleep over the question of, was he helpless to the beast, or hiding it in him all along? Was he a mere victim to the predator instinct forced onto him? or willfully steering it—?

No. No. Because he’s like blood to you. And blood is thicker than water, and poison, and the niggling doubts you feed on until gluttony.

“I-It hurts,” you try when he bottoms out with a resounding groan. Shameless and frenetic. He stoops over you after pressing your legs all the way back to the couch, rough as he purrs in your ear.

“You say it hurts, but your pussy just squeezes tighter around me… So you’d understand why I’d be getting mixed reactions, don’t you?”

He whispers. For the second documented time, you find Sylus cruel. Very, painfully, cruel.

It’s hard to argue with him, even when you know he’s wrong. You think if he was more awake right now, more him, then he’d side with you as well. And yet he’s completely untrustworthy right now, morally black and mean. So, so mean.

That devilish smirk on his blissed-out face might bring on an even sharper sting than his cock as it spears inside you and starts a brutal pace.

Well.

Not quite.

Your eyes flare. So do his, want and pure, unadulterated need zipping between your bodies as his perspiration dribbles onto your collar. He hangs his head into your shoulder and you feel droplets slip between the valley of your breast.

It doesn’t take long for the heat to feel sweltering; sweat running like the Nile between you both.

“Silly little bird. You just- hah, fuck- have no clue, do you? How tempting you are?”

You ignore it all because it’s better to. Maybe ignorance won’t shield you from his hands as they clench around the fat of your hips, but it’ll certainly help you later on down the line when you want to forget and are thankful for the kickstart.

You try to focus on the ceiling, but even that blurs behind him when he leans back some just to stare, moaning at what he sees.

Even beasts can appreciate beauty, he distantly observes.

Those eyes on you, not gentle per usual (albeit sometimes tinged with a harmless tease) but ravenous and sharp- are even harder to ignore. You can’t stop your hands from lifting to push at his face to try to block him out.

All for naught, of course.

With a choked moan, he chuckles. “Ugh- look at you. These little hands keep swatting at me, even though your face is full of pleasure. Fuck,” he curses, his face handsome but a bit unnerving as it dons a more perverted look, eyes half closed, “You feel…. good. I always knew you would.”

No. No. Shut up, shut up—

“You wanna be good for your daddy?”

Yes.

Not like this.

He gathers your unruly hands and cuffs them above your head. “Then lie down and take it. If it hurts as much as you pretend, I’m sure it’ll… feel better that way, if you give in.”

There’s a very small window in between Sylus hovering over you and then Sylus dipping down to bite the fleshy bit between your neck and shoulder: in it, there’s no time to prepare.

Ice tingles in your veins, shock stealing your breath.

It’s the pain, first dull and uncomfortable as his teeth sink in, but then quickly all-consuming, that helps you find the scream.

The scream— a small, broken cry.

It doesn’t make much noise, not enough for any possible neighbors to hear- in Linkon, none would even bat an eye to it, anyway- but he covers your mouth regardless. He eats up the pathetic sounds with rough lips and hungry groans.

You don’t know how much blood he’s drawn, but there’s a little on his teeth that he makes you taste.

“Ngh, you’re delicious,” he heaves after a break. Saliva connects you both in a fleeting strand. “I’m sure your pussy tastes even better- but kitten, I really don’t have the time right now to try it. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” He chuckles in your ear. You know he does not care for the answer. It’s deep and mean-spirited.

This side of Sylus- this rotten caricature of the man who took you in— All the hurt for it turns to loathing.

“For later,” he decides after a beat, resolved as he ignores your sneer.

You’re used to ambition on his end, but not greed: right now, his goals gravitate more towards selfishness than anything else.

All of it nears its end and quickly.

As he ruts into you, though, frenzied thrusts reaching their mark with loud grunts, it feels more gradual for you… Painfully slow. Seconds might as well be minutes, or hours, even.

It’s feral, the glint in his eye as he reshapes your walls to fit the outline of his massive cock, your virgin pussy spasming around him. Responsively, he gives a twitch, and you swear you feel his balls jump when he pauses- just for a moment- and they rest above your ass.

Sylus looks down at you, breathless and wild, and you shake at the lack of familiarity in his gaze. Ruby red eyes survey you almost frantically, with one intent only- to fuck you within an inch of your life, undoubtedly. Full of need. It’s a bottomless gaze. You think right then that you can’t give him what he wants because he’ll always be left wanting for more.

You’re not an ocean— if he reaches his hand in, he’ll inevitably reach the bottom but that clearly doesn’t stop him from trying to pull everything from out of you anyway.

It scares you. You feel small, mouse-like, but when he snatches your jaw into a sultry kiss, all canines and spit, you realize that even amidst the tumult of his predator state, you still mean something to him.

You’re all he sees. Feels. Understands to want for.

He burns inside you, the juncture of your thighs becoming sticky, gross. He ploughs inside without care for it, chasing his end and choking out moans along the way.

He coaxes some out of you, too.

Maybe it’s out of fear but you suckle on his tongue experimentally and he shakes, damp skin shivering under your finger pads as you dig them into his forearm.

Maybe you can’t play dead, but if all else fails, you can still play nice.

That’s in your best interest.

“F-uck, sweet thing, you’re gonna make me-“ a primal noise rips through his chest and rings in your ears. He lowers himself to your neck again and suckles at the orbs of blood that prick at the surface, lapping away at the small mess he made.

You wonder if after all this is over, you’ll be able to pretend it was just a love-bite, a hickey or something minor. Healable. Something able to be forgiven. Even if that would also be hard to reconcile with, considering you’d never thought he do something like this to you, the precious girl he’d flip Linkon upside down for—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He’s classy, but not now. Cursing up a storm at your clavicle and pounding into you without thought, blunt nails embedding into your hips. Aching to brand himself wherever he can.

There’s no ceremony to it all (though there is a build-up, his pelvis quickening but stuttering against the underside of your bent thighs) when he comes.

He shouts and you scream, holding onto him for dear life as a torrent of something hot and thick floods you. Your legs shake, poor cunt desperately trying to push its intruder out but it flutters when he throbs inside you and quivers. A wisp of pleasure paralyzes you- it’s so good.

Warmth trickles between you; all along the seam of you when he withdraws until only the tip remains, his cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused.

You let your head bounce against the cushion when he slides it all out with a wet ‘pop’, squeezing your eyes shut in shame. But relief joins it, too, your jaw (that had went slack only to howl with delight) closing as you catch your breath.

It’s done. It’s over. You went through the hard part and now you just have to wait the aftershocks of it out until morning, when you’ll finally be given the chance to recuperate and forget the monster your daddy was acting the night before—

Something thick, straightening back to life, nudges at your sopping hole again as it clenches around nothing. Your eyes snap open.

A large, callous palm holds you down, bracing you by the collarbone. He tuts, leaning over you with a dazed but wholly vicious grin.

Far from satiated.

“Ah-ah, kitten. It’s a little early to tap out, isn’t it? I’m far from done with you.”

He drives himself back home, slamming into you with a moan you brokenly mirror.

✦

Morning birds tweet outside the window. Bickering back and forth to one another.

The sheer curtains glow with sunlight as the onset of dawn makes its way in. Rays of it slur together in blocks on the floor.

Sylus’s room, you realize groggily. Not the living room with its new sofa stained with sweat and sex or the rug with its shattered, neon vials.

A strong arm holds lazily to your waist. Warm breath at your ear tickles you into slight wakefulness. The body slotted behind yours isn’t scorching hot like your nerve endings remember, though, almost flinching in response, and his sounds aren’t ragged. No, it’s…

Peaceful.

The events of the evening before come back to you in increments.

Your mind, with the natural want to protect you, chalks it all up to a bad dream.

The ache between your sticky legs and the fat cockhead that sits limply above the cleft of your ass- appeased- says otherwise.

You let out a soft gasp. The man behind you grumbles out a low, noncommittal sound before his lashes flutter over the blade of your shoulder.

“…Baby? What’s wrong?”

He untucks himself from there and is given great pause when his nakedness- and yours- clicks. His limbs harden around you— horrified and confused as every fresh memory from last night comes barreling into him as well.

Stunned, he lifts his head from its perch at your shoulder, but his hand remains above your hip, feather light and hesitant.

Wearily, you turn to meet him when his other hand gently steers your chin to look his way.

He looks tired. Fucking exhausted, the fine wrinkles in his face emphasized under the weight of the night prior. He looks—

Devastated.

“You-…” A sharp, shallow breath beats from his chest. His eyes, wide and unsteady, flit between yours, searching desperately for something he can’t quite find or recognize as you wet your lip to speak.

“Yesterday, I… Started decorating the house. I was excited to show you,” you say without really knowing why. Sylus’s shoulders sag ever so slightly at your apparent calmness, but the fear in his eye remains as he surveys the bruises- all the discoloration in your otherwise supple skin- and blinks.

You inhale shakily, looking down to his chest and all its striations, put on full display in the afterglow of what transpired however many hours before.

It feels wrong to call it a night of love-making, or even a term more raw, unfeeling, as sex. No, it was…

He fucked you within an inch of your life and that was all you really knew. He fucked you until you passed out and then sometime afterwards, apparently snapped out of his trance just enough to carry you back to his bed and sleep the remnant of his frenzy through.

But it wasn’t his fault. Couldn’t have been.

(Whose, then?)

You murmur, “I should’ve went with Wolfe.”

“No,” and there it is again, that fucking snarl, searing you through to the core but before panic can settle, he’s cradling your cheeks and pressing his forehead to yours.

His eyes are intense, but not scary. No, they’re tender and beaten and lovely as his chest shudders and he shakes his head. “No, sweetie. What happened…” he starts, just as unsure of how to label it, “had nothing to do with you. Don’t ever blame it on yourself. Do you understand?”

Blearily, you nod.

You see him in double when he sighs and carefully thumbs away a tear you didn’t realize had formed and fell.

…But Sylus appears a mite uncertain with himself when his eyes fall to your breast before quickly averting, self aware to the point of near pain and definite discomfort. “I’ll clean us up,” he ventures, glancing at you again.

For permission, you realize. To scoop your jelly limbs up and carry you to the shower, bridal-style, where he’ll wash the both of you naked, intimate and-

And should-be alarming.

But it’s not. Not now when you’re still dazed and bruised and his dried cum is caked to your thighs in white rivulets- and he’s just as wounded, but ready to fix. Ready to repaint over the peeling bits of you both in the aftermath of it all. Hang a picture over the hole in the wall of your heart.

“…Okay.”

He wastes no time in picking you up, but he’s gentler than ever when he takes you with him to the bathroom adjoined to his room. It’s awkward: you note that even in the bone-deep fatigue. You can tell he’s trying not to look at all the places instinct tells him he should, and you do well to blot out the sight (and memory) of his softened cock as it dangles between his legs.

The shower starts. Sylus keeps you upright so you don’t fall because your joints will literally fail you otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” he laments as the water pours overhead, holding you against him. He means it in more ways than one. And yet, before you can voice your acknowledgement, and an unsure forgiveness, a small hope stirring in your gut that says this can be moved on from—

His lips press to yours. Chaste but searing; somehow even more world-shattering than last night.

It’s different. He’s… awake.

Jaw slack, you blink at him, water clumping your lashes both. He’s as handsome as a wolf is hungry but- for the moment- domesticated. Even his crow’s feet seem to soften.

“I’ll help you unpack the rest today,” is all he says as he reaches behind you for the soap, gaze unwavering even as you latch onto him and your perfect tits jiggle, his hand dipping below to carefully lather at your marks.

“This house can still be a home. I’ll show you.”

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

[erebus0dora]

some of you asked if you could print/chew/otherwise consume my Devil's Minion art, and i did ask if you needed a masterpost on the topic, so-

may i offer you this Google Drive folder, o gentle creatures..?

i'll add more, and i believe it's sensible to add the links to the original posts with these images, but frankly speaking i am chill with whatever way you use or share them if that's for your personal use

just keep them free, that's my only request

what was born as a free art should remain free art

any questions left? ask them, i don't bite unless you would really like that

now, have a peaceful day and my digital hug

💜UPDATE💜

it feels appropriate to make it a fully shaped masterpost, links and all, so... links to each and every artwork on the theme - below the cut

the Tarot cards (Hermit/Death)

"...rest" (but mirrored)

first take on Armand that looks like anime

some thoughts on the age of the magnolia tree

human!Daniel deliberately thinking of beautiful things

The Magnolia Tee Print

animated Daniel (literally, as in, a gif)

a very vampire!Daniel, thoroughly researched

Byzantine Icon Armand

a tender moment which is vague but there you go

sleeping Armand from a fic

hugs (the quiet)

more hugs (abrupt)

more hugs (headphones on, updated)

Daniel gently cleaning Armand's face

some extra somfte quiet gremlin

crack!chibi!Daniel on tees

crack!chibi!Daniel on teefs

sneaky sleepy uncertain hug for another fic

moar tender touch for another fic

beige pillow

the return of the beige pillow

"i see you"

kissing the maker's hand

more tender face-touching, couldn't choose one

Daniel comes to Louvre

Daniel collects art

four pages of Armand running and Daniel chasing

Hug The Gremlin

Hug The Gremlin For He Is Art

Armand as a candle, literally

Armand and magnolia petals (the art)

Armand and magnolia petals (the sculpture)

(slightly off-topic, but) Perforated Heart because ffs Eric knows his shit

good old don't you maître me thing which i keep forgetting to include

Only Fangs Molloy - keep in mind there's a JPEG and a TIFF version in the Drive folder, the TIFF works better if u wanna print it

(+bonus TALK SHIT GET BIT file is also there)

A LOT of traditional stuffs, scanned in 350 dpi for your entertainment

Daniel gently feeding his feral master, which is honestly one of the most tender things i have created

cozy sated hugs on a sofa

a domestic scene of Daniel waiting for Armand to enter his space, i suck at descriptions

trad art bonus! fighting with graphite dust, vol. 1, Luke

trad art bonus! fighting with graphite dust, vol. 2, Assad

an inspired old dogboy Molloy because face it, the world needs more hot aged people

trad art bonus! fighting with graphite dust, vol. 3, Armand

trad art bonus! Salomé Armand (+ vid)

MORE trad art! sculpting dat old hot man

what happens when you use ur own slightly inaccurate sculpture as a ref

EVEN MORE trad art!! Eric vs. watercolours, for his face compels me and his wild ig inspires me (+ vid)

TRAD ART AGAIN, since i found paper that looks like fun base for bookmarks (+ vid and bonus Daniel)

"he is behind my back, isn't he" (+ linked explanation)

tbc🫀

"he is 100% behind my back and i have ideas about it 😈"

[cherrychilli]

18+ Steve Harrington X F! reader, friends to lovers, flashing (f) WC: 762 Summary: Steve's amazed by the number of things you can fit in your bra when you refuse to lug around a bag with you.

In the last two hours you'd pulled out a wad of fives to pay for the snacks you'd both picked up at the gas station, then a lighter as the two of you sat out on the hood of Steve's car, overlooking Lovers Lake while you had a smoke and last, a pack of minty gum for you to chew and smack on when you got back in the car.

What fascinated Steve was that none of these items had been stored inside a bag like one might expect, all of them pulled out of your bra like it was an entirely normal thing to do. Unable to ignore it any longer and more than a little flustered, he finally breaks his silence on the matter.

"Okay, I have to know. What else do you have in there?", Steve carefully gestures vaguely in the direction of your breasts, looking all kinds of exasperated. You return his look with an amused smirk.

"I'll give you two guesses", you puff your chest out, the answer so obvious it makes him roll his eyes.

"Not them- uh, those. I mean, c'mon. Doesn't it ever get, I don't know...uncomfortable having to wedge it all in there?", he asks trying and failing to choose his words carefully while his eyes flicked back and forth between your face and your cleavage.

You see your chance and pounce at it, especially since he'd set you up for it so perfectly.

"I don't mind a tight fit, Steve", you chew on your gum with a wink, torturing the poor boy as you leisurely blow a bubble big enough to pop.

"You- you know what I uh, what I meant", he tells you while trying his damndest to appear composed, his voice giving him away when it cracks enough to make you snicker.

He does have a point though, you could admit that much as you cut the jokes and decide to answer with a simple shrug. "I don't know. It's something I just got used to. There's enough space for everything I need. And besides, I hate having to carry a bag around. those things make my shoulders sore as all hell", you explain honestly although you can tell that Steve's nowhere near ready to move on from the subject just yet.

"Tell you what. Since you're so interested, how about a game? loser has to do whatever the winner says if you can guess how many other items I've got in here.

"Seriously?", he checks, eyes all round and alert.

"Yup", you confirm.

Knowing of three items already, he thinks hard. Much harder than he ever has before, his eyes fixed on your breasts, trying to ascertain what else might be hiding under your clothing, even working up a light sweat near his temple which makes you giggle.

Steve's making it out to be some sort of life or death deal and honestly, you liked how seriously he was taking this, showing you how much and how badly he wants to get a peek under your sweater.

"C'mon Harrington. Don't wanna be out here all day you know", you chide after another minute ticks by.

"Okay...five?"

Reaching inside, out comes the lighter, the gum and the money again, his eyes still hopeful when you fish out your apartment key followed by a tube of lip balm only for his face to crumble when you finally pull out a spare hair tie.

So close. He'd been so damn close as a really pitiful look of defeat spills over his face.

"Okay, so what to you want from me?", he groans, ever the sore loser.

You might have won but you don't feel any thrill in having done so. If you were being completely honest, you weren't exactly mad at the thought of Steve winning. In fact, you'd quietly hoped for him to do so just to see what he might have asked of you.

Well, you've got a pretty good guess as to what it might be.

Boobies, of course.

You didn't have to. You really didn't have to but the sight of him like this makes you feel oddly compelled to reward him anyway. Anything to wipe that dour look on his face.

Reaching round, you watch Steve's perplexed face with glee as you unclasp your bra and pull it out through your sleeve so seamlessly, winking at him before picking up the hem of your shirt and lifting it up to let him see your breasts bounce free and bare.

"Your undivided attention", you grin at his cherry red face, knowing full well this wouldn't be the last time you let him see them.

[misctf]

Christmas Curse

Hey everyone! Happy Holidays. If you have any holiday-themed asks, I will try to prioritize those. Hope you enjoy this story!

“Yeah, yeah Stacy, I know.” Matt grumbles, “You’ll be here soon. Got it.” He rolls his eyes, “ Jesus Stacy, I got the kids their presents. I know how to be a dad.” He hangs up, “Fuckin’ bitch.” He mumbles.

Matt yawns and starts preparing his morning coffee. He was going to need it. While he didn’t really mind having his kids over, he did hate having to see his ex-wife. Always nagging him, even after they signed the papers. It was that nagging that drove him to cheat on her with one of his clients at the gym. At least that’s how he justified it. A small frown formed on his lips as he sips his coffee.

“First Christmas since the divorce.” He mumbles, looking around his empty apartment, “Damn.” A part of him starts to feel guilty- his kids deserved better. No decorations, no tree, not even a single light, “Fuck. I won’t hear the end of this.” His thoughts return to his ex-wife.

He quickly walks to his closet where he had a few things that he got from the house after the divorce. He sighs as he realizes most of the decorations he took were broken- likely due to how unceremoniously he treated them during the move.

“Oh god.” He grimaces as he pulls out their Elf on the Shelf, “Terrifying little fucker.” He chuckles, “Yeah, you got me good, Stacy.”

It was the one decoration Stacy insisted he take in the divorce. Likely because of how much it creeped him out. Just another petty move on her part, he figured. Yet part of him can’t help but smile. His kids loved the thing.

“I guess this’ll do.” He quickly walks back to the kitchen and places it lamely on a chair.

He walks over to grab his coffee and upon turning around, he raises an eyebrow. The damn thing was on the ground. Matt walks over and quickly places it back on the chair, making sure there was no way it could fall.

“Creepy fucker.” He mumbles, turning around again.

Thump

“Really?” Matt turns back to find it on the ground again, “Seriously, what the hell?” He picks it up and looks at it closely, “Stay put.” He realizes he sounds insane- talking to an inanimate object.

“Make me.” Matt’s eyes widen as he realizes the decoration just talked to him. Its eyes blinking. Its giggles echoing in his ears.

“Gah what the fuck!?”

Matt cries out as it bites down firmly on his thumb and he throws it across the room. He stares at the small teeth marks on his thumb and watches as the little demon scurries away, its giggling filling his apartment. Matt’s breath became heavier as he stumbled to the kitchen sink and started cleaning out his cut. His thoughts were racing and he was feeling dizzy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” He’s mumbling to himself, and he shakily grabs his cup of coffee.

But when the bitter liquid touches his tongue he gags and drops the mug. Its disgusting. Bitter, sour, and he spits out as much as he can. He quickly rushes to his fridge, looking for anything that might get that disgusting taste out of his mouth. But none of his protein shakes look appealing, nor does almond milk or his protein smoothies. Matt doesn’t know what compels him, but he grabs the chocolate milk he got his kids last time they visited. Without much thought, he begins to guzzle it, downing the carton in a matter of seconds.

“So good...” He giggles, wiping his mouth.

His eyes widen at the realization of what he just did. He just ruined his macros for the day without even thinking about it. At least the taste from the coffee was gone. Matt shakes his head- realizing he has bigger things to worry about. He needed to find that elf. As his thoughts return to his predicament, he can hear a giggle coming from the bedroom.

“Fudger...” Matt mumbles, “Fudger? No I meant fudger! What the fudge?” He shakes his head, trying to curse, “Sugar plums... I need to find that thINg.”

Frustrated at his inability to curse, and the strange cracking of his voice, Matt rushes to his room. Desperate to find the monster and give it back to Stacy. Of course she gave him a cursed doll. And as he storms down the hallway, he absentmindedly scratches at his beard. The hairs falling away, leaving his cheeks smooth and hairless. Unbeknownst to him, they take on a rosier complexion, filling out slightly and becoming rounder.

“ThERe you ARe.” Matt’s voice cracks as he notices the decoration sitting atop his tall dresser, “Come here.”

Matt approaches his dresser and reaches to grab it but finds his arms no longer reach the top of it. The elf grins and teases Matt, reaching out to Matt, who is unable to grab it. Just missing ever so slightly. The personal trainer is growing frustrated, now standing on his tippee toes as he desperately swats at the elf.

“Why can’t I reach it?” Matt thinks. At 6’3” he never had an issue reaching the top of the dresser.

And as he lifts his arms above his hand, he catches a whiff from his exposed pits. But it’s not his musk that invades his nostrils. No, it’s sweet. Like gingerbread and holly. He lowers his arms, not even registering that his pit hair has vanished.

“What’s happening to me?” He whispers, his voice softer. The masculine edge diminished. He looks up at the elf, who is smiling at him, “What did you do to me?”

Matt turns and looks over at his full body mirror. A high-pitched gasp leaves his mouth as he catches a glimpse of himself. He’s short... at least 5’4”. And his muscles look softer. He saunters over to the mirror, feeling his smooth face, rubbing a hand through his dissipating chest hairs. His tokens of masculinity vanishing at an alarming rate. His face cute- elfish even. Just like... just like...

“No, no, no!” Matt’s voice has settled on its higher tenor, “Stop this!” He hisses, hating how pouty his voice sounds, “Please! I...” He turns to confront the elf.

But it’s no longer on the dresser. Matt’s heart is pounding in his chest as he swings back to watch the changes continue. He grunts as his meaty pecs let out a hissing sound and deflate before his eyes. Days of chest flies and bench pressing seem to reverse themselves as his chest becomes flat, his two nipples becoming perkier and sensitive to the cool air in his apartment. He can’t help but massage his flat chest with his dainty and smooth hands. Part of him enjoying how cute he looks, another part utterly horrified at the loss of his gains.  

“Wait, please don’t... not my arms!”

In a moment of lucid thought, he realizes that his impressive tris and bis are releasing the same hissing sounds. Rapidly becoming stick-like and nonthreatening. Matt feels tears well up in his eyes. He loved to flex- to show off to his clients. He loved holding women in his muscular arms. How they would run their hands along them and his abs... His abs! He watches as they too smooth over and vanish, giving him a lean tummy. His treasure trail, another symbol of his masculinity has similarly vanished. The hairs falling to the ground, leaving Matt smooth.

“Oh god...” Matt feels for his Adam’s apple and frowns, “Even my voice...” He stumbles backwards and slides down the wall, “Oh!” He moans as his inflated ass cushions him, “Wh-what...?” He moans as he feels his larger ass. His hands filling with the flesh of his larger, jiggling mounds, “Ohhhhh...”

He gives them a squeeze, part of him embarrassed at how sensitive they are. At how each squeeze causes his dick to harden with pleasure. And as he moans again, he can’t help but realize that the bulge in his pants becomes less prominent. While part of him screams to stop, the pleasure he’s getting from just squeezing his ass overpowers any remaining willpower he might have. When he finally does pull his hands away from his ass and looks down his pants, his heart sinks. His dick has settled on 2 inches hard. Far from the thick meat women would beg for. And while part of him wanted to cry, to beg to return to his masculine form, another part urged him to give his ass another squeeze. And he did. Again and again and again...

It was a few hours later when he heard a knock at his door. Matt was lying face down, ass in the air, his dainty hands massaging his thicc ass. He slowly pushes himself up and giggles. His rosy cheeks rounding out more as a smile forms on his cute face. He quickly walks over to the closet where he rummages through tank-tops and hoodies.

“So ugly and boring...” Matt thinks as he hums a Christmas tune to himself.

And then he finds it. He never really remembered buying it, but the red footie pajamas, white fluffy mittens, and Santa hat are absolutely perfect. He quickly puts them on and walks over to the mirror.

“Ohhh I look so good!” He giggles, lifting his leg and doing a twirl.

Part of him registers that he looks exactly like the elf. A near perfect, human replica. And while he feels deep down this is wrong, that he isn’t some elf-like, twink with a big ass, he can’t imagine being anything else.

“No please! Let me out!” Matt’s giggling stops as he listens closely to the voice in his head. And when he stares in the mirror, he sees who he used to be. A desperate fear in the man’s eyes, “Please! I’m not...”

“Shhhhh!” Giggling fills the air, “We have a lot to do!”

Matt leaves the mirror, the sound of sobbing echoing deep within his brain. But Matt can’t be bothered right now. He quickly swings open the door and grins when he sees Stacy.

“Stacy!” He sings, “Merry Christmas Eve!”

Stacy grins, “Seems like you found my gift.” She says, “I just came by to pick up the presents for the kids. I think they should stay with me this Christmas.”

Matt frowns, “Alright... It’s not like I’m ready for Christmas anyway.” He pouts, crossing his arms.

Matt watches as Stacy leaves with the few presents he got for his kids. Internally, Matt is begging to be freed. This isn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t... His thoughts slow as he feels hands grip his massive ass. The two Matts moaning in unison. Their minds melding in the midst of their shared pleasure. And internally, Matt realizes it’s too late. As the new Matt opens up Grindr to find a hairy daddy to fuck his brains out, Matt realizes by the time Christmas morning comes around, he and this new Matt will be one.

As he dreads his future, he can hear a giggle coming from down the hall. One last mocking laugh from the elf on the shelf.

[muletia]

[tfp] optimus prime x human!reader

summary: optimus handles the "would you still love me if i was a worm?" question a little too well

cw: fluff, optimus is fucking obsessed with you, bad writing, silliness

word count: 545

"Optimus?" you asked, breaking the silence.

Behemoth stopped working on his datapad, giving you his full attention. His private quarters were dimly lit, except for the soft blue glow of his patient optics, illuminating your figure, comfortably seated on his desk. Wrapped in a blanket and lying on the cozy couch that Optimus had personally brought in for you, you felt safe.

"Yes, my dearest?"

You couldn't quite explain what compelled you to speak the words that began to slip from your lips. Perhaps you just needed some validation in that moment, or maybe you were feeling a little down and wanted a mood boost. Whatever it was, it took over.

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?"

"What is a 'worm'?"

Embarrassment washed over you. You shouldn't have said anything (even if part of you was curious to see how he would respond).

It didn’t help that he was staring at you with those big, puppy-like optics, patiently waiting for an explanation. Oh God, he took it completely seriously. It shouldn’t have surprised you, knowing who you were dealing with, but this wasn’t the kind of question to take seriously. You would've been thrilled if he just said a simple "yes."

You cleared your throat.

"Ermm, well, you know..."

He absorbed every word like a sponge, analyzing, debating within himself to find the right response, unaware of your sudden awkwardness. He didn’t consider your question childish; he wanted to give you an honest answer that reflected his feelings.

After several seconds of silence (though to you it felt like hours), his mouth moved, and the reply that came out was one you never expected.

"I would build you a large garden with the richest soil in the universe, decorate it with your favorite flowers and plants, so you could enjoy the view before you when you decide to leave your shelter. I would visit you at every free moment, sharing updates about life, discussing human craft that recently captivated me. At night, I would carefully lift you onto my servo, so we could gaze at the radiance of the night sky together. I would treat you as my equal, with unchanged gentleness, affection, and devotion, admiring your beauty beyond your physical form, speaking to your soul. And just as I do now, I would be devoted to you, ready to answer your every cry, gesture, and request, overjoyed simply by being able to help. I would love you as a worm, a plant, a stick, or a stone, nurturing my love for you until my final days, faithful only to you."

The look of astonishment on your face made him a little concerned.

"[Your name], is everything alright? Did I say something inappropriate?"

"Wow..." not the most eloquent response, but your brain was too fried to come up with anything better. You blinked a few times to regain your composure, but it didn’t stop the blush from spreading across your face. "That was... beautiful. No, really, I didn’t expect such a powerful answer."

Optimus surprised you again by sending a gentle smile your way, softening the metal contours of his face. And then, whether consciously or not, he fired a return shot.

"And would you still love me if I was a worm?"

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Aslı Aydıntaşbaş for Politico Magazine:

American democracy is about to undergo a serious stress test. I know how it feels, in part because I lived through the slow and steady march of state capture as a journalist working in Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s Turkey. Over a decade as a high-profile journalist, I covered Turkey’s descent into illiberalism, having to engage in the daily push and pull with the government. I know how self-censorship starts in small ways but then creeps into operations on a daily basis. I am familiar with the rhythms of the battle to reshape the media, state institutions and the judiciary. Having lived through it, and having gathered some lessons in hindsight, I believe that there are strategies that can help Democrats and Trump critics not only survive the coming four years, but come out stronger. Here are six of them.

1. Don’t Panic — Autocracy Takes Time

President-elect Donald Trump’s return to power is unnerving but, as I have argued previously, America will not turn into a dictatorship overnight — or in four years. Even the most determined strongmen face internal hurdles, from the bureaucracy to the media and the courts. It took Erdoğan well over a decade to fully consolidate his power. Hungary’s Viktor Orbán and Poland’s Law and Justice Party needed years to erode democratic norms and fortify their grip on state institutions.

I am not suggesting that the United States is immune to these patterns, but it’s important to remember that its decentralized system of governance — the network of state and local governments — offers enormous resilience. Federal judges serve lifetime appointments, states and governors have specific powers separate from those granted federally, there are local legislatures, and the media has the First Amendment as a shield, reinforced by over a century of legal precedents. Sure, there are dangers, including by a Supreme Court that might grant great deference to the president. But in the end, Donald Trump really only has two years to try to execute state capture. Legal battles, congressional pushback, market forces, midterm elections in 2026 and internal Republican dissent will slow him down and restrain him. The bottom line is that the U.S. is too decentralized in its governance system for a complete takeover. The Orbánization of America is not an imminent threat.

2. Don’t Disengage — Stay Connected

[...]

Nothing is more meaningful than being part of a struggle for democracy. That’s why millions of Turks turned out to the polls and gave the opposition a historic victory in local governments across Turkey earlier this year. That’s how the Poles organized a winning coalition to vote out the conservative Law and Justice Party last year. It can happen here, too. The answer to political defeat is not to disconnect, but to organize. You can take a couple of days or weeks off, commiserate with friends and mute Elon Musk on X — or erase the app altogether. But in the end, the best way to develop emotional resilience is greater engagement.

[...]

4. Charismatic Leadership Is a Non-Negotiable

One lesson from Turkey and Hungary is clear: You will lose if you don’t find a captivating leader, as was the case in 2023 general elections in Turkey and in 2022 in Hungary. Coalition-building or economic messaging is necessary and good. But it is not enough. You need charisma to mobilize social dissent. [...]

Last year’s elections in Poland and Turkey showcased how populist incumbents can be defeated (or not defeated, as in general elections in Turkey in 2023) depending on the opposition’s ability to unite around compelling candidates who resonate with voters. Voters seek authenticity and a connection — give it to them.

5. Skip the Protests and Identity Politics

Soon, Trump opponents will shake off the doldrums and start organizing an opposition campaign. But how they do it matters. For the longest time in Turkey, the opposition made the mistake of relying too much on holding street demonstrations and promoting secularism, Turkey’s version of identity politics, which speaks to the urban professional and middle class but not beyond. [...]

6. Have Hope

Nothing lasts forever and the U.S. is not the only part of the world that faces threats to democracy — and Americans are no different than the French, the Turks or Hungarians when it comes to the appeal of the far right. But in a country with a strong, decentralized system of government and with a long-standing tradition of free speech, the rule of law should be far more resilient than anywhere in the world. Trump’s return to power certainly poses challenges to U.S. democracy. But he will make mistakes and overplay his hand — at home and abroad. America will survive the next four years if Democrats pick themselves up and start learning from the successes of opponents of autocracy across the globe.

Aslı Aydıntaşbaş, who had first-hand experience with Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s authoritarianism in her native Turkey as a journalist, wrote in Politico Magazine on how to effectively fight Donald Trump’s authoritarian impulses.

[petew21-blog]

The Bridgerton Scandal

“Dearest gentle reader, this author feels compelled to report the latest scandal in our society. A certain young gentleman has expressed his intention to seek a wife in this coming season. And who might that gentleman be but Mister Colin Bridgerton, newly returned to the ton after his travels abroad. Who, one may wonder, shall become the next fortunate young lady?”

Anthony sat by the fire, holding today’s edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers. Not thinking much of it, his mind wandered from the paper to his forthcoming engagements, scarcely paying attention to the words before him. Suddenly, the door swung, his brother walked into the room visibly angry.

Colin:”Do you care to explain why Lady Whistledown feels the need to share the news that I am in search of a bride this season?”

Anthony muttering:”Who gives a damn what that hag and her infernal paper says.”

Colin:”Anthony, as far as I am aware I have no intention of marrying any time soon. Have you spoken to anyone about this matter?”

Anthony:”Indeed, I might have… mentioned it to Mother and Benedict as a suggestion of course.”

Colin:”And why would you do so without first speaking to me?”

Anthony:”Because I am the head of this family and it falls to secure advantageous matches for all my siblings. You, Benedict and Eloise are of age and must begin shouldering new responsibilities.”

Colin:”You ought to follow Daphne's lead and find someone for yourself, rather than attempting to sell us off like racehorses.” 

Colin was ready to leave the room, but Anthony was enraged now. Anthony got up and stormed towards Colin. 

Anthony:”Do you have any idea what it costs to maintain our property and this family? Every day that we waste our time doing nothing, we waste our money and our fortune. You strut about the ton like a peacock, desperate for attention, but with no intention to marry them. Well… You will do as I command.”

Colin:”What grants you the right to dictate the course of my life?”

Anthony:”My position as the Viscount.”

Colin:”Father would never have forced us into marriage against our will.” Colin said, frustrated and angry. 

Anthony:”Well, he is no longer here. So you will obey MY decisions.”

Colin:”I shall do no such thing!”

Anthony, full of rage, grabbed the nearest object to him, their father's relic from the cabinet. It was an old wooden box, mostly worthless. Their father never spoke of it. Kept it away from their reach. When Edmund died, there was no one to pass the knowledge of this old relic. Thinking nothing of it, he threw it swiftly at his brother’s back, hoping to hurt him.

But Colin turned swiftly and catched it, smirked and threw it with even stronger force at Anthony. The relic bounced off Anthony's back and fell on the ground. 

Colin left, heading into his room, while Anthony left the house into his favourite brothel. Maybe he would find a woman resembling Sienna to keep his mind off all of his duties and his younger sibling.

Next morning

Anthony woke up from having a bad dream, all sweaty and tense. He rose from the bed, hyperventilating. Something wasn't right. He looked at the window. The sun shone into his face, which was not unusual, given his windows faced east. Yet his bed should have placed the morning light at his right, not his left.

He drank an immeasurable amount of liquor last night, so he probably might have entered the wrong room after his return. Did he return? He remembered drinking in the middle of passionate sex with a prostitute.

He looked around. This looked like Colin's room, but no sign of Colin anywhere.

Anthony got up. Something felt really off. He decided to get himself a bath before seeing the rest of the family and filling his duties for the day.

Considering the fight he and his brother had last night, it might be better to find him and explain the situation. 

He turned around to grab clothes left on the bed. As he reached out his arm, he noticed it looked different. He looked at it. It was less hairy and a bit thinner than his own. Then he noticed his hands. Smaller. His eyes lowered to his chest.

“What in the…” he began speaking, but hasn't even finished his sentence. He recognised it. That voice was unmistakably Colin's voice. Why was Colin's voice coming out of his throat?!

Anthony looked around and found the nearest mirror. And in it, the reflection of his younger brother looked back at him mimicking his every movement. 

Colin woke up to the voice of a woman laughing.

He looked around. What was this place? And how did he get there?

Colin saw the naked woman in front of him. Smiling, giggling. Oh no, he was somehow in a brothel now.

Colin:”How did I get here?”

Woman:”Are you well, my viscount?”

Colin:”Viscount?!”

Woman laughed again:”I see you are still a bit drunk. Unfortunately your carriage awaits as you requested.”

Colin:”I have?”

Woman:”Yes, you said you don't want to be seen returning home late.”

Colin:”Oh…”

Woman:”I'll leave you to get dressed. Thank you for visiting us again, my Lord. I have had a great time.”

Colin couldn't believe what she was saying. Is this all a dream?

Colin swiftly got up and looked out of the window. The sun was rising. If he wanted to avoid any embarrassment from his brothers he should leave now. No matter how he got there.

He looked around the room for clothes, but suddenly felt his weight shift differently. He was used to his core strength being different. He felt heavier. He felt uneasy.

Colin looked down. “Bloody hell!” The surprising length between his legs was definitely something he was not used to. He looked at it. It was longer and the girth was really impressive. Had something happened to him overnight?

But the more he observed, he noticed his much thicker pubic hair. 

He looked back at his ass. “What the…” the perfectly formed ass was covered in a fur-like set of hairs all over.

Colin grabbed the clothes on the floor. He knew whose clothes these were. And by looking at the reflection in the window his suspicion was confirmed. 

“I'll kill Anthony for this!”

Benedict spent his morning as usual. Drinking tea after his late nights painting, drinking and having fun with others. He grabbed the Lady Whistledown left on the table. “What a sharp tongue you have. I wonder who you might be.”

Anthony in Colin's body, dressed in yesterday's clothing stormed into the room.

Anthony:”This must be a very sick joke you pulled on me brother! I might not know how you did this, but let me assure you revenge will be sweet.”

Benedict nonchalantly raised his brows and looked at who he assumed was Colin:”Had some nightmares little brother?” Benedict smiled.

Anthony:”Cut the act. This isn't something to laugh at. This is a serious matter. I have meetings I have to attend. Letters to answer to. A family to take care of.”

Benedict:”If I didn't know better, I would say you’d finally gone mad and started impersonating our dear brother.”

Anthony:”I am Anthony!”

Benedict laughed and without a word returned to the Lady Whistledown. 

At the very same moment, Anthony's body returned.

Anthony's new face turned red. “You! You stole my face!”

Colin:”Me?!? Why would I want to have to watch your stupid face in the mirror and have these ugly sideburns?!?”

Anthony ran at his former body, making Colin stumble an fall. They were rolling around fighting for the position on top to have advantage of the other one.

Anthony wanted to punch Colin with a fist, but Colin distracted him:”You wouldn't want to hurt your pretty face, now. Would you brother?” This made Anthony stop, but gave Colin enough time to throw him on the ground with his new bigger body.

Colin:”Seems like I’m the stronger brother now, right brother?”

Anthony growled:”You’ll regret this!”

Benedict stood above them and observed with curiosity. “Ok, enough or I'll call mother to set you straight.” After hearing the scary threat, they stropped. Both stood up, rearranging their clothes and looking at each other in disgust.

Benedict:”Do you care to explain to me what this is all about?”

Colin:”I woke up in a brothel. With no recollection how I got there. And then to my horror I found out I have Anthony’s face.”

Anthony:”Could be worse. Like waking up with your small cock.”

Colin:”I’ll punch you again!”

Benedict laughed. “Very well. So you two think, you’re each other? We’ll see about that. Colin, or I presume that’s you now Anthony, tell me what is the most humiliating moment? Something you’d never tell a soul, or least of all Colin.” Benedict smirked knowing that if they pulled this sort of a joke on him, this was a thing that Anthony would NEVER let Colin know.

Anthony in Colin’s body sighed:”Don’t make me say it out loud, please.”

Benedict got close to Anthony and gave him a chance to whisper it to his ear.

Benedict:”This can’t be! You two really are each other! But how? This shouldn’t be even possible.”

Colin:”We had a fight last night. Anthony decided to get us all out of this house, is that right, Anthony?”

Anthony:”I only told you what my concerns were and that you are of age to get married. So are you Benedict…”

Benedict:”All right, that’s a topic for another morning. What did you do after?”

Anthony:”I left to… cool off.”

Benedict:”Off course you did.”

Colin realised what they omitted. “You threw that old box at me!” He picked it up from the ground. “I caught it and threw it back at you!”

Anthony:”You think it caused us to…?”

Benedict nodded:”It’s worth a try.”

Colin threw the box at Anthony, but he missed and made it fall.

Colin:”What are you doing?!”

Anthony:”Your body is different from mine! So clumsy.”

Anthony picked it up and threw it back at Colin. But nothing happened. The two swapped brothers looked desperate.

Benedict:”All right, well let’s hide the box somewhere safe and we can try later on.” Colin wanted to hand the box to Benedict. “Are you quite mad?! You want to drag me into this mess too? I am not going to touch that thing.”

Colin put it on the shelf behind him, out of their younger siblings reach.

Anthony:”So what do we do now? I have meetings to attend to.”

Colin:”No, I do. I am Anthony now. You are now Colin and you can help out with the correspondence you’re always complaining about.”

Anthony sighed. “Will you, please, not embarass me? It is a very important meeting that might get us a very profitable deal. And, please, don’t eat anything I wouldn’t. I don’t want to return to my body being heavier and unable to see my manhood.”

Colin:”I’ll try not to embarass you, that I can promise. But I guess I will enjoy sweets more than I ever have in my life.”

Colin put a piece of chocolate in his mouth and left the room to get a carriage.

Benedict leaned next to Anthony:”I think that was for the comment on his size. Is it really?”

Anthony:”I can show you. I am used to a much higher standard than this worm.” 

Benedict:”Oh please do. I'm so curious.”

Anthony unbuckled the belt and let down his pants.

Benedict's eyes widened in shock. Benedict:”Good Lord… is that it?”

Anthony:”Awful, isn't it?”

Benedict:”I mean… it's not THAT small, but it is definitely unseen. I wonder if Colin thought about shaving. Might be easier to find it.” Benedict said in a mocking tone.

Anthony:”Maybe if I get it hard, it will look bigger.”

Benedict:”Yes, brother. And maybe if you water it twice a day it’ll grow by spring . I must admit, I had rather higher expectations from our bloodline. This must be… humbling.”

Anthony:”What should I do with this if we won't change back to ourselves?”

Benedict:”Probably sharpen that tongue of yours.”

Benedict couldn’t stop laughing for the next following minutes, thinking of the ways he could make this situation even more amusing.

Anthony sat down behind his desk watching the piles of correspondence. He never had enough time to get to it, always finding more entertaining duties. He exhaled and with his shit half opened, revealing his brother’s hairy torso, got into sorting it out.

One meeting after another, Colin found himself exhausted. No wonder, Anthony is so frustrated all the time. The conversations he had today gave him a headache he never had in his entire life.

“Shall I call for a carriage, my lord?” his servant asked gently.

“Yes, please. I am fatigued.” Colin responded, getting up and leaving the mansion he found himself in.

They rode for half an hour, but when they were approaching the house, the carriage did not slow down.

Colin:”Why are we not stopping?”

Servant:”We are going to the same place as usual, my lord. Or do you want us to not go there today?”

Colin smirked. Anthony always arrived late from his meetings, because he was in a brothel! Does he want to do the same thing? But he is his brother now. In his body, which is disgusting. But at the same time, it would be priceless to see Anthony’s reaction after he’d tell him, he fucked a prostitute with his body.

Colin:”No, carry on.” Colin smiled

The owner of the brothel showed him to the same room he woke up this morning. Entering, finding it empty, Colin took off his brother’s clothes.

Colin could smell Anthony’s sweat clinging to the fabric. “You reek, Anthony. This must definitely be a new way of torture.” he took off his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. He hated the sideburns. “Ehh, I despise those sideburns.”

The door swung open. The same lady from the morning entered. “Miss me?”

Colin:”Of course.”

She pointed at the bed and Colin understood. As he laid down, the lady in front of him started stripping and throwing off her clothes. Colin felt as his new cock started getting hard.

He lowered his pants and revealed a much larger penis, than his body had.

Colin’s eyes widened. He took a grip of his new shaft and observed the veins and the head of his new large cock. The length of it couldn't be covered by the size of his hand. He gave it a go and played with the foreskin. He was so fixated on it that he completely forgot about the woman.

Woman:”Shall I leave you alone, my lord?”

Colin looked up, his hand still holding the cock. He laughed and dragged her by the hand to him.

The moans coming from the room were for the first time mostly coming from a man, instead of a woman.

Colin:”Don’t you think this is a bit too much? Altering his looks?”

Benedict:”I think it’s perfect, ANTHONY. You said you wanted a change and hated the sideburns anyway. Didn’t you?” Benedict reminded his little brother of the presence of the staff in the room.

Colin:”It seems a bit too much. It was only a size comment.”

Benedict:”Are you forgetting your argument from last night? We should remind our brother his words. Besides, size matters, brother. Thought I daresay you’re only just discovering that.”

Anthony entered the room. Benedict and Colin, in his body, sat on the sofa with a mischievous look. And then Anthony noticed the sideburns.

Anthony:”You didn’t!”

Colin:”I did.”

Anthony:”I would have never…”

Colin:”You would.”

Anthony:”You’ll pay for this.”

Colin:”We’ll see about that. Could I remind you something, my LITTLE brother?”

Anthony:”Remind me what? And if you’re suggesting that I have a small cock now, don’t forget it’s your cock!”

Colin and Benedict leaned their head in unison and smirking, clearly planning something ominous.

The three of them continued their afternoon journey in a carriage.

Anthony took off the shirt to put on another one that wasn’t so sweaty.

Anthony:”So who else do we have on the list of your potential brides, Colin?”

Colin:”You really got into the role. And it's YOUR list, Anthony and they are your potential brides. You’re me now. And you said last night that I should get married very soon.” Colin said with a smile in Anthony’s body, making Benedict chuckle next to him.

Anthony:”I don’t know when the two of you started conspiring against me, but I will get back at you for this. As soon as I am back in my body…”

Benedict:”If you get back.” Benedict winked at Anthony, making him furious before his next meeting.

The Bridgerton family spent their afternoon in the local park. Colin seemed extremely pleased with himself, while Anthony couldn't wait to somehow get back at his brothers. Colin spoke to the ladies, bragging about being a viscount and hinting at his size.

Anthony took Colin aside to talk at the pier alone. “Colin, bloody hell, what are you doing?!? You want to ruin my reputation?”

Colin:”Oh come on brother. You should be proud. I am making you famous among the ladies.”

Anthony:”You have to stop this instant. People might get suspicious.”

Colin:”You know, I was wondering if I should visit that girl of yours in the brothel.”

Anthony:”What are you…”

Colin:”When I visited earlier today, to fulfill your regular schedule, the woman from last night told me about her. What was her name? Sienna? She must have been fabulous by what she told me about you visiting her all the time.”

Anthony couldn't keep his temper. No matter the embarrassment or whose body he was in. Anthony pushed Colin into the lake. 

This impulsive act caused all the people around to gather nearby. Colin got out of the water. The soaked white shirt, now transparent, completely revealed Anthony’s muscular and hairy chest for all the people around to see. Gasps and giggles could be heard from all over.

While Colin climbed the pier, Anthony already received scolding from Lady Bridgerton.

Colin looked up at Anthony leaving the park and decided that shaving off his sideburns won't be the worst thing he'd do to Anthony's body.

Colin and Benedict were having another drink together while gossiping about their brother.

Anthony entered the room.

Anthony:”I came to apologise. What I did on the pier was impulsive and childish. Please, accept my apology.”

Colin, already tipsy from the alcohol:”Does that even count Benedict? When he's just apologising to himself? I think that shouldn't count. Don't you think?”

Benedict:”I think not. It doesn't seem sincere.”

Antlook's eyebrows lowered in a scolding way looking at Benedict. He turned back at Colin:”I came to you, Colin. Whether you accept or not is entirely up to you.”

Colin:”I think that your body accept the apology. Speaking of your body. I do have a question on my mind. Why is your ass so hairy? And how do you manage your hygiene? Don't you get like some pieces left there?” Colin said with a mischievous look on his face, smirking at his face looking back at him.

Benedict was now in tears.  Unable to say a single word.

Anthony looked at the both of them, straightened his back and confidently spoke up:”You two can mock me all you want, but do not forget that I am still in your body and just as much as you are embarrassing me now, I can embarass you.”

Benedict:”How?”

Anthony:”I could engage in a romantic encounter with a fellow man. That would definitely get a front page in the next Whistledown.”

Anthony turned his back at them and left the room, leaving them stunned.

Benedict:”Well this all just got even more interesting than I even hoped for.”

The next morning, Benedict woke up the two of them quite early.

Benedict:”Gentlemen, get ready. I relaised that we have a one time opportunity to settle an argument. Meet me at the garden in 10 minutes.”

Both got dressed and arrived to the garden to see that Benedict has prepared a fencing gear.

Anthony:”Benedict, what is this? Why now?”

Benedict:”Fencing. You are always bragging how you can beat anyone solely based on your technique. Now is your chance to prove it. And why now? Why not, the two of you will fight for the rest of the day, so we may as well get on with it early in the morning. Shall we?”

Colin and Anthony accepted.

Benedict:”And the winner is indeed Anthony. Once again. Anthony held out his hand and shook it with his own body. He sat down on the bench.

Anthony:”I told you it was about technique. You didn't believe me. Now I got a proof.”

Colin:”Proof of what?”

Anthony:”That I'm better than you two.”

When Colin beat Benedict, he decided to sit down next to Anthony. Benedict sensed the tension and left them alone.

Colin:”I'm sorry for the sideburns.”

Anthony:”Don't be. I truly look better without them. You were right. I'm sorry for the comments. It wasn't right.”

Colin:”No, you're right. I'm not that endowed as you are. Which is a very pleasant change, I must say.”

Anthony:”It's very strange that we are two brothers talking about each other's private parts, isn't it?”

Colin:”It truly is.” Colin laughed.

Anthony:”Did you enjoy having an intercourse in my body?”

Colin:”I have. Your body is very well built. And your… cock is magnificent. Did you try mine out?”

Anthony:”Haven't had the chance. I was startled by the size difference.”

Colin:”It's actually not that different from having your larger one. You just have to know what you're doing.”

Anthony:”Are you trying to say that I have it easier to have an intercourse ?”

Colin:”Try it out and we can compare later, if you're up for it.”

Anthony:”Sounds like a challenge.” he said with a smirk and amused face expression.

Colin accompanied Anthony to the brothel. Not that Anthony wouldn't be able to find it, being a regular customer, but they didn't know Colin's face.

Anthony:”Tell them to get me Jennifer. She'll be considerate if I fail.”

Colin:”You will not fail. I will.”

Anthony left Colin in the entrance hall and headed to the room. Jennifer was ready on the bed, waiting to be fucked. Anthony took off his shirt and nervously hyperventilated.

Jennifer:”First time?”

Anthony:”Something like that…” he dropped his pants and watched Jennifer's reaction. 

Jennifer:”Oh don't worry, darling. You're in very good hands.Anthony's, or Colin's cock was getting hard. And although the size was not impressive, now it was easier to imagine that this thing could please someone.

Anthony entered his bedroom where Colin was lying naked in the covers.

Anthony:”Where did you go last night? I thought you wanted to have fun.”

Colin:”I wasn't feeling it last night. I went back home. But tell me about your night.”

Anthony sat down:”It was incredible. I never knew that pleasing each other orally with a woman was just as entertaining as penetration.”

Colin:”See, there are more ways to have intercourse.”

Anthony:”I know that of course. But even the intercose was Interesting. She guided me and we both had a great time.”

Anthony looked around the room. The clothes were tossed everywhere. The covers were messy. His body was sweaty and panting.

Anthony:”Why are you so out of breath?”

Colin:”I… I did not want to enjoy the company of a woman last night, because I wanted to enjoy your… manhood all for myself.”

Anthony suddenly realised that he might have interrupted him during the act. “Oh… I am sorry? This is a very strange situation. I'll leave.”

Colin put his arm behind his head. “You know what brother. I still feel like I could get some tips on this large thing from the original owner. Care to join me?”

Anthony was visibly shaken by Colin's proposal.

Colin:”It's not like we haven't seen each other before.”

Anthony closed the door, took off his clothes and went to the other side of the bed.

Anthony:”I guess we’d just be exploring just like when we were children.”

Colin:”I have never done that.”

Anthony:”You haven’t? Me and Benedict did, all the time.”

Colin:”You never included me.”

Anthony:”Well you were much younger then we were. And after we stopped exploring the possibilities, we found out that we can do many interesting things with women.”

They were now next to each other, both naked. Anthony broke the tension.

Anthony gripped his smaller penis and started pleasing himself. His smaller cock began to grow. 

Anthony:”It’s really not that bad as I imagined.”

Colin:”Of course it isn't. It’s about skill. Here, let me show you.” Colin let go of his bigger penis and moved Anthony’s hand. He spat into his hand and twisted it around the whole thing. Anthony started moving around in pleasure. “Wait, wait, how did you…?”

Colin:”You gotta learn the tricks if you don’t have the advantages.”

Anthony tried it himself and almost collapsed. “I swear this thing is even more sensitive than my own.”

Colin:”I do have one thing to ask you.”

Anthony:”What is it?”

Colin:”Have you thought about trimming this hairy ass of yours?”

Anthony:”Why on earth would I do so?”

Colin:”While on my travels abroad, I met a woman who showed me something very interesting. Maybe I could show you as well, If you dare?”

Anthony hesitated. “Depends on what it is…”

Colin:”Even if it may be an unclean way of pleasure, I assure you, you have never felt like this before.” Colin got close to Anthony and once again spit on his hands, but this time he spread the saliva on his fingers. His fingers were getting close to Anthony’s ass. Colin maintained eye contact with Anthony the entire time.

Anthony:”Wait I…”

Colin:”Trust me. And if not me, trust yourself, literally.”

Colin pushed his fingers inside slowly, giving Anthony time to adjust. And finally finding the right oval structure, stimulating it, increasing in speed.

Anthony had to place a pillow in his mouth to not scream out loud in pleasure. He didn’t even notice that his dick got hard and in a few moments, hot white liquid came shooting out of it on his belly.

Anthony had to catch his breath, while Colin smiled. 

Colin:”Amazing, right?”

Anthony couldn’t believe what a wave of pleasure just swept him. The two spend the next hours talking more about Colin’s experiences on his travels, while Anthony showed his own tips to Colin.

The Bridgerton's found themselves at a ball beginning another season. Only a few days after the exchange, the brothers settled their differences, now being closer, but still in the wrong bodies.

Anthony approached Colin. “So which one of us is winning?”

Colin:”Winning?”

Anthony:”How many women has my body had intercourse with, with you in charge?”

Colin:”Three, maybe four. Depends how you count if it's at the same time.”

Anthony smiled. “I'm only at three. You’re in the lead.”

Colin only smiled back, feeling the bittersweet feeling of missing his body and life.

Anthony:”Listen, Colin. If we exchange, I will stop pushing you into marriage. You will find a magnificent bride and make her a happy woman. When you will be ready. And if we don't exchange, I hope you'll do the same for me.” Anthony and Colin laughed together out loud. Anthony left to ask Penelope to dance with him.

As Colin watched them leave, he couldn't but smile at the development of his brother's opinion.

On the next morning the two brothers woke up in the original bodies. They met up half way down the hall, undressed, but happy to be themselves once again.

The only person who was not happy was their brother Benedict. Being the only one who knew about the exchange, gave Benedict the opportunity to mess with the brothers and help them plot against each other.

The comments about the amount of hair, sizes and mocking of their previous situation didn't stop from Benedict. This led the brothers to step up and get revenge on their brother.

While sleeping, the two brothers brought their father's relic in a napkin.

Anthony wanted to touch Benedict's hand and then touch someone from the staff to get proper revenge on Benedict. 

But as he and Colin argued, who from the staff should it be, the relic slipped from the napkin, filling next to Benedict.

Without realising what they have done, they left the room, giggling.

If only they had known that if not touched by another person, the one touching jr would exchange with the original owner at the time the person touched it as well.

That's why Benedict soon found himself shirtless in a field holding the box. 

Not only in a different body…

but a different time.

A story requested from a friend who wants to remain anonymous

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hey! Can we get vergil leaving love letters and maybe small gifts for someone he really likes and eventually confesses after getting caught by dante leaving them and gets a pep talk from him ^_^

this is long, but i promise it goes somewhere.

Vergil felt he should be above this, standing outside just outside your door, love note held tightly between his fingers along with a pristine blue rose he had picked out earlier. This wasn't the first time he had found himself in this exact position -it was the fith time in fact- not that he was counting but it was ridiculous enough for him to remeber each and every time he slipped you a love note and a small meaningful gift.

The first time he claimed was coincidental, thinking nothing of the way he'd weave words of admiration and affection on a piece of paper, solely because he remebered how you found poetry to be the most beautiful form of expression of deeper emotions.

The second time Vergil felt that with the rough expression you worse upon your face for the day made him feel compelled to aquire a small plush of a blue bear with button eyes and nose, both coincidentally in the shape of a heart.

The third time Vergil found himself at your doorstep was because you were hurt on a mission and he felt anger, both at who hurt you and at himself for tursting you when you told him that you would be fine on your own, only for him to return and see you bleeding out as he worked quickly to rush you to medical aid within his arms. No one had ever seen Vergil look as dishevled and firghtened as he did as he held out your bleeding and broekn form in his arms, a demanding 'help them' escaping his lips as he watched over your healing journey excrutiatingly close, almost guard dog like.

The fourth time was when Vergil had soon come to realise that what he felt for you was more than what he could fully comprehend, more deeper, more raw than he original thought as him tolerating you more then most. It was the moment where Vergil realised that his vison of you was always inherently romatic in most of your interactions with one another, whether he was stopping himself from acknowleding it or not, but it didn't stop the factual truth was that vergil felt something deep towards you.

After reflecting upon the previous times he had given you something, a voice called out to him. 'Vergil?' A glance from the corner of his eye and Vergil could see that it was Dante and let out a disgruntled sigh.

'what.' He replied back sharply, this was the last thing he needed right now as if he knew his twin well as he knew his ownself, then he knew that Dante would use this againt him for his own convienience.

Dante shrugs as he leans against the wall, eyes flickering over the note and blue rose within his twin's hand, and then finally over at your door as the pieces came together before his eyes and soon enough he was looking at Vergil with a knowing smile. 'im not the one attempting a love confession at (name)'s doorstep in the middle of the night, how's that going by the way?' he asks as he could see clearly that Vergil wasn't in the mood in having the piss taken out of him, not that Dante was trying to take the piss, if anything he was happy that his brother had found someone he could be painfully human with.

'im doing no such thing.' Vergil spits out like venom but he knew it was fruitless, for despite the persona his brother puts up on a daily basis, Dante was extremely perceptive. 'i'm just-'

'Attemtping to confess to (name).' Dante cuts him off as he moves closer to Vergil despite the looks that he was giving him-skeptical and weary- as he then placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling. 'nobody stnads outside someone's door holding a love note and a blue rose and expect people to think it's anything but a love confession. im happy for you brother.' He adds as Vergil only narrowed his eyes further at him before looking down at the gidt he was going to leave for you to find in the morning.

'Happy for me? How is me confessing to (name) in anyway a potential benefit for you?' Vergil asks, casting his gaze towards your door as though he had expected you to be standing there, half asleep from being awoken by their conversation, but thankfully for you weren't for he'd rather not be futher humilated for his current predicament. It was almost enough for Vergil to let out a sigh of relief before remembering that his brother was still very much present next to him, and still very much had his hand on his shoulder.

'i'm just happy that (name) makes you feel so in love-'

'it's not love.' Vergil responds quickly, yet he knew he wasn't fooling Dante, he wasn't even fooling himslef anymore.

'it is. it is love because i still remeber how scared you were to loose them Vergil. I still remeber the look within your eyes, that primal look that took over you that even had me a little scared.' Dante let's out a lighthearted laugh before his face became sombre and serious. 'I even remeber seeing you hold their hand tightly within your own, fingers resting on the pulsepoint of their wrist, as though you were trying to reasure yourself that you wern't going to lpose another great love of your life.' Both brothers were silent for a moment or two as the memory washed over them.

For Vergil it was the helplessness and the fear of not knowing whether he had gotten to you in time, wanting to know your heart still worked, as his calloused hands clasped yours in desperation. For Dante it was seeing his brother so conflicted and torn with wanting revenge and wanting to stay near you, to prevent anything worse from happening should he stray too far from you. It was finally seeing the humanity shine through his brother, the very humanity he tried to hide and discard of, only for it to strenghthen tenfold when you were brought into harms way.

Dante could see the hesitence, the frustraition, the fright within his twins eyes, but he could also see that he was so close to getting Vergil to stop disappearing when dropping of your gifts and finally allow himself to be happy. He knew his brother hated being cornered nor confronted with emotions he's not familiar with, which often tends to him either lashing out or withdrawing himself in hopes that the feelings would go away, fade into obscurity.

And as cliche as it might be to admit but it only takes one moment to realise that while Vergil wants the human feelings to leave his heart, he's forced into a standstill on whether that is what he truly wants when you were put in a dangerous situaiton; which was clearly a no as Vergil became more protective over you ever since with how he acted like your second shadow at times.

'No one is standing in your way Vergil, only you and whether you are strong enough to cross the line into uncharted terratory.' Dante tells him, thankful when Vergil didn't go on the offensive like he usually did, as he continued. 'You have more then enough reason to withdraw yourslef but are you really willing to withdraw yourself from them, knowing that life would be far sweeter by their side? knowing that the internal battle within you wasn't for nothing?'

Vergil's eyes were firmly locked onto your door now as he allowed his twins words to sink in, for him to truly digest it as he weighed his pros and cons within his head, only to come to an anwser that would be benifical for the both of you in the form of a relationship. He would allow himself the forbiden fruit that was you, allow himself to be encased in your love and embrace, allowing himself to be happy as Dante heavily insited for him. For once in his life he had to thank his brother for being the voice of wisdom, the voice that pushed him to do the unimaginable, for being his brother when he needed him to be.

'leave.' Vergil said and Dante's smile fades from his lips.

'what?' he asked.

'i can't confess if your here observing us like were in a zoo enclosure.' Vergil explained and Dante -relieved- only ruffles his brothers hair and wishes him goodluck before leaving down the hallway, though he didn't stray too far in hopes of overhearing it all. Having watched his brother's back as he left, Vergil now felt a rush of confidence overcome him as instead of leaving his gifts as orignally planned, he instead knocked on your door and waited with what felt like infinity as the air left his lungs when it opened to reveal a half asleep you.

'Vergil?' you say with a voice full of sleep, rubbing your eyes and the first thing they noticed was the pristine blue rose that seemed to glow in the drak and the love note within his hands. Now you had noticed recently that you had a secrete admirer from the gifts you were given the past week, however you noticed a theme with the gfts in partiuclar as all of them would be the same shade of deep blue. The first person that popped into your mind upon seeing the colour was Vergil and how could it not? Blue was pretty much associated with him in more then his clothes and personality and you had to say it made him look all the more beautiful to you.

A small smile graced your lips as you were proven right, even if you did had some hesitance in beliving it's him given his adversion to anything remotely human, yet you weren't agaisnt being wrong in this moment as it was all you could even think of. 'So it was you. the gifts i mean.'

'yes it was me, i apologise if i am not the person you were expecting such a display from.' Vergil says, suddenly feeling that enclosed feeling within his chest, the need to dissapear as his grip on the note and rose tightned. You smiled softly as you reached for the note and the rose, gently prying them from his grip, your touch far gentler on Vergil's scarred and caloused hands as he could only watch as you hold them both to your chest as though they were the most precious things you ever recived; which Vergil found perposterous as you deserved more then what he could ever give you tenfold.

'Not at all,' you start, 'i was actually hoping it was you. so if anything im happy that it is you.'

Vergil's brows raised, unconvinced. 'your happy?'

'very.' you replied, smiling a little wider as you saw just how out of his element when it comes to confessions, it was almost cute in a way. 'very happy.'

Vergil felt as though a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders as well as his chest and found himself stepping towards you, placing his slightly chilled hands over your own, before resting his forhead gently against your own. The uncertain rage within his chest and mind had settled into a peaceful dormant period, bringing forth a moment of peace and serenity over him as the words seem to flow from his mouth more freely then they would've moments ago.

'im glad to hear words of certainty from your mouth, to know that my feelings aren't missplaced and unreciprocated.' Vergil began. 'for the past week i have been fighting my heart in being with you, having only ever viewed my human side a disgrace, an weakness to forever be concealed in favour of my demoic side that gifted me power beyond imagination. Yet now i crave a different form of power, love, unity and the mutal alinment of our souls, for the moment i was confronted with the idea that you too would slip from my grasp i decided to cling onto you tighter so that you may never slip from my grasp ever again. i will not allow it.' He finished, somehow feeling more lighter and at peace then before, it was an addictive feeling that he could naturally only assosiate with you.

'im not going anywhere Vergil, it's hard to be anywhere else when being by your side is where i want to be most.' You admitted as you felt Vergil's hands tighten their hold on yours in silent reassurance. 'i didn't say anything becuase i was sure it if was something you wanted, so i decided to lie in wait until you were ready to come to me on your own terms.' you finished as you tested the waters by kissing his nose, finding his little jolt at the affection adorable from the powerful half devil infront of you.

'you have me now my dear, you have me now until you tire of me.' Vergil replied, placing a featherlight kiss to your nose, mimicing your prior actions.

'i don't think i could tire of you Vergil, not when i have waited for you this long, so i plan on holding you tightly until forever fades away.' you confess as you and Vergil stayed in your position as though dedicating it to memory, using it as the starting point of which your relationship shifted for the good.

Dante, having watched the entire thing, wiped a tear from his eye as he could alredy see the shift in Vergil only you could bring out of him. 'It's your time to be happy Verg, it's your time to be happy.' he siad to himself as he actually decided to go to bed this time, his mind already planning on how he could tease his twin for being such a sappy romantic knowing he'll get stabbed. It'll be worth it though, it'll be all worth it.

[fatesundress]

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tomes and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless. 

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end. 

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —” 

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “You seen the shite the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a bloody Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? How about you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He brings you to his bed after and you let him, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

[cherienymphe]

Teenage Dirtbag II (JJ Maybank x Reader x Rafe Cameron)

Warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, abusive relationship, domestic violence, violence (+ gun violence), gun kink, dacryphilia, attempted murder, mentions of blood, public sex, jealousy, manipulation, infidelity, underage drinking, drug use, canon ages, kook!reader

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

➥ series masterlist

summary: You’re charmingly spoiled. You’re too kind for your own good. You’re the princess of Figure 8 …and you’re way out of JJ Maybank’s league, but when he realizes that Rafe Cameron’s pride and joy is actually a bruised and battered damsel, he’s determined to save you.

Your rescue just comes with a price.

~

“Why was JJ even trying to give you some drink, anyway?”

You resisted the urge to sigh, anticipating such a question the moment the topic had swung back around to the party from last week. You kept your gaze on your lip gloss, dipping it once then twice before looking up into the mirror. You could hear Rafe pause in his movements, no doubt waiting for an answer, and this time you finally did heave a breath.

“I don’t know, Rafe. I told you this,” you said to him, turning to look at him as he sat on the edge of his bed.

You watched him study you, that blue gaze of his oh so unnerving, and you weren’t the least bit relieved when he simply hummed.

“I know,” he finally replied, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek. “…but I have a right to wonder. Especially since you’ve never spoken to him a day in your life before that night.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned to swipe the sticky product over your lips, recalling that it was one of Rafe’s favorite shades. The conversation had the potential to slip into dangerous territory, derailing your entire night, and you mulled over your next words carefully.

“He was probably just trying to get a rise out of you,” you honestly murmured, looking at your boyfriend. “…and it worked.”

You merely shrugged at him as he scoffed.

“I mean, he’s way more familiar with you than me. Probably just wanted to piss you off.”

You turned the light off in his bathroom, making your way towards your shoes as you desperately hoped this conversation would come to an end soon. The topic of other men was one that rarely ended nonviolently, and you didn’t know how Rafe got it into his head that the antics of JJ Maybank had anything to do with you when everyone on this entire island knew how much they hated each other. A year ago, you barely even knew the other blonde’s name.

“Well, it worked,” Rafe confessed, coming over to help you put on your other shoe. “You’re too good to even be talking to trash like that, so yeah. It pissed me off.”

At the look on your face, Rafe continued, shaking his head.

“I know what you’re thinking, and you really don’t need to go around feeling sorry for guys like that. He’s not the down on his luck kid you think he is,” he advised, pulling you to your feet. “Him and all of Sarah’s little buddies are nothing but trouble.”

Rafe took his time telling you this, making sure you heard every word, and you only felt compelled to nod as he placed a brief kiss on your lips. Rafe swiped up your purse for you as he pulled you out of the room. You felt safer with Rafe in his house than you did in your own, but Ward’s careful eye on his son had never been foolproof. There’d been plenty of times Rafe gave you a sprained wrist or bruised jaw in his very own bedroom.

It's just that in his desire to be more careful within the Cameron household, he sometimes decided that it wasn’t even worth it.

“Where are you two off to?” Sarah wondered as you came face to face with her in the living room.

You hadn’t even known she was home, and when it became clear that Rafe wasn’t going to answer her, you did.

“To a movie.”

The smile you sent her was small, and she reluctantly returned it before settling her gaze on her brother. You didn’t miss the way her eyes narrowed, lips pursing a tad. They never got along, but considering recent events, you knew what this particular disagreement was about to be about.

“JJ’s nose is still pretty messed up, you know.”

At that, Rafe did finally acknowledge her, stopping to face her with a challenging look you knew all too well. He tilted his head to the side, one brow raised.

“That sounds like something that isn’t my problem,” he shrugged, and you softly told him that you needed to go in an attempt to avoid whatever this was, but he ignored you.

“God, you’re such an asshole, you know that? JJ just offered your girlfriend a drink and so you broke his nose? Yeah, ‘cause that makes sense,” Sarah murmured, shaking her head as she looked back down at her phone.

You squeezed Rafe’s arm, but he merely sneered at his sister.

“JJ’s a little shit who likes to look for trouble wherever he goes. Not my fault he found it,” Rafe spat, pulling you along before Sarah could reply.

His quiet disposition and tight grip on your hand told you how annoyed he was at Sarah’s reminder of JJ and that night, and you mentally wondered if this was going to be a little thing or something that affected your whole night. Maybe even the next one too. He said nothing when he helped you into his truck, and so you were unsurprised that he was quiet his whole way to the movie too.

You were thankful this was the date of choice because it was easier to ignore Rafe’s mood when your eyes were glued to the screen. In fact, there were moments you forgot he was even there, giggling to whatever was going on in front of you. Once the movie was over, however, Rafe’s uncharacteristic silence was hard to ignore.

Knowing that you’d regret it, you finally spoke up when you made it back to his truck.

“I feel like you’re mad at me for some reason.”

It sounded silly to your ears, but then again, you knew your boyfriend like the back of your hand, and as little sense as it made, you had the sneaking suspicion that he put some blame with you somehow.

“Not mad,” he murmured, and you simply looked at him.

His gaze and the tightness in his jaw said otherwise, and despite his evident annoyance, he still claimed otherwise. He was silent as he opened your door—his irritation growing the longer you stared at him—and when he blinked, straightening, you finally slid inside. You weren’t surprised to have the door slammed in your face, and you could only sigh when he joined you.

The first few minutes of the drive were as quiet as before, but when Rafe finally cracked, you could only close your eyes.

“Why did you even want to go that night, anyway?” he bitterly chuckled.

You turned to look out of the window with a defeated heave of your shoulders, swallowing.

“You’ve never wanted to go before, and even then, some bonfire on the beach isn’t your thing. You go to house parties with pools and prissy bitches who don’t want to get their hair wet,” he sneered, making you look at him. “Yeah, JJ might’ve wanted to piss me off, but it was you he chose to do it through.”

“So…what…? It’s my fault? I should’ve never gone with you, is that what you’re saying?”

You frowned at him when he glanced at you, dirty blond hair kissing his forehead, and Rafe’s silence spoke volumes. Against your will, you felt your throat tightening, and you were unsurprised when tears kissed your eyes. You hated crying in front of Rafe.

“I just wanted to go, Rafe. I’d never been, and…it’s not like I have any friends to go with anymore. Would you have rather I’d gone alone?”

“Don’t be cute,” he threw at you, tossing you a scathing look. “You wouldn’t even get the chance to try.”

You huffed, looking away from him as he continued, watching the trees fly by.

“Besides, I thought we both agreed that your friends were catty airheads who you didn’t need to be around,” Rafe firmly said. “You have better friends, now.”

“Those are your friends,” you sighed. “…and I know because they barely talk to me. I’m just your girlfriend who’s supposed to stand there and look pretty.”

Those last words came out in a murmur, but Rafe heard them loud and clear.

“You’d have nothing to complain about if you didn’t ask to go in the first place.”

His words made your frown deepen, and despite what you wanted, a few tears escaped. You looked at him in disbelief, although, you didn’t know why. You should’ve been perfectly used to the words that came out of his mouth, sometimes, now.

“What am I supposed to do, Rafe?” you cried. “Just sit in my room, twiddling my thumbs until you come back?”

When he looked at you, he rolled those blue eyes of his, a scoff leaving his perfect lips.

“I don’t have time for the antics, tonight,” he breathed.

Now, it was your turn to scoff.

“You started it,” you pointed out.

You knew that you were already on thin ice, you could tell, but when Rafe cut his eyes back to you, your heart skipped a beat. You watched your boyfriend swipe his tongue between his lips, slowly nodding as he looked back at the road.

“Okay…” the truck started to slow as he inhaled. “Yeah, okay.”

You felt the hairs on your arms stand on end as he stopped in the middle of the road. It was late, so it wasn’t like the roads of Kildare County were littered with traffic, but it still made you nervous, nonetheless. You watched Rafe turn the truck off, and before you could say anything he was looking at you.

“Get out.”

His words made you blink, lips parting before snapping them shut.

“…what?”

One of Rafe’s arms leaned on the steering wheel while his other hand rested behind your headrest. Even in the darkness, there was a glint in his eyes that told you he was completely serious despite the insanity of the request. The atmosphere in the truck felt so tense—thick with it—and you pulled your lip between your teeth when Rafe leaned in, gaze cold and mocking.

“You said I started it? Well, now I’m finishing it. Get the fuck out of my truck,” Rafe quietly spat at you, making you flinch.

An incredulous bark of a laugh escaped you.

“Rafe, it’s the middle of the night, are you crazy?”

At your refusal to do what he asked, he merely turned away, opening his door. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched him hurry to your side, yanking the door open and proceeding to yank you too.

“Rafe! What the hell-?”

Your words were cut off as you were forced to stumble out of the vehicle and into the road—without your purse. When he roughly shoved you away, you tripped over your own feet, hissing in pain as you barely caught yourself on your hands. Rafe was already back in his truck by the time you pushed yourself to your feet, and in shock, you watched him start it up. You’d only just reached the handle of the door when he sped off, and you screamed his name after him in a mix of fear and anger.

You couldn’t even really focus on the knowledge that you were in the middle of an empty stretch of road in the middle of the night. You were too angry and annoyed to, and with a sob, you pressed your face into your hands. You sniffed, wiping your face before wrapping your arms around yourself and looking around.

You knew that trying to go toe to toe with Rafe even just a little could prove to be disastrous. You just desperately wanted him to understand that all you had was him. With no friends and no social life outside of him, Rafe was all you had, and you weren’t the bad guy for simply wanting to go to a party with him. You knew he knew this though, so you didn’t even know why you bothered, but you just hated to be blamed for something JJ Maybank did solely because he and Rafe hated each other.

You were merely a tool in the incident.

Rafe was so childish sometimes, so this little display of anger shouldn’t have surprised you. Even still, your nerves were on end as you started to walk down the road. Like you’d thought earlier, there was no traffic in sight, and truthfully, nothing in Outer Banks was that far from anything else, but that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

You wiped your face again, but fresh tears just fell.

It was cold, and while your jacket kept you from shaking, this still wasn’t the kind of weather to be walking down the street in. You couldn’t stop crying no matter how much you tried, debating with yourself if you wanted to just keep walking towards your house or try your chances with getting sympathy from some stranger. You knew what Rafe would prefer—and you knew what was statistically safer—but something in you wanted to piss him off further.

After all, he was the one who threw a tantrum and put you out on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Something in you was desperate to teach him a lesson, and you genuinely wondered what Rafe would do if you just…never came home. You wanted to see the look on his face when your parents called him asking if he’d seen you. However, something in you told you that he wouldn’t be as stricken as you’d think.

This was the same man who threatened to kill you on several occasions.

…but that was different.

That had always been when you tried to leave or even made him think you would leave. That was always said as a promise to make you stay, and even worse, that was when your demise would be at his hands. Rafe wouldn’t get the same satisfaction from leaving you to the mercy of the elements and strangers in the middle of the night.

You were just wiping more tears away when you could see headlights coming from the other end of the road. You weren’t on that side, so you weren’t all that concerned, and despite your earlier bleak thoughts, you actually didn’t relish getting in some stranger’s car and hoping he was honest enough to just take you where you needed to go.

However, your heart did sink a little when it became clear the vehicle was slowing down.

…but your worry morphed into irritation when you recognized the truck.

Rolling your eyes, you merely kept walking as Rafe slowed down enough to have a conversation with you. Or at least attempt to, anyway. You didn’t look at him, swallowing and keeping your tearful eyes straight ahead as you walked.

“Baby, get in the truck.”

“Why?” you wondered with a shrug. “You’re the one who kicked me out.”

“I don’t have time for this,” you heard him mumble. “Y/N, get in the truck.”

Against your better judgement, you ignored him, and Rafe stopped reversing to put the vehicle in park. You picked up your pace when you heard his door open, but Rafe was faster, and you could only attempt to pull away when he roughly grabbed your arm. Yanking you towards him, Rafe didn’t hesitate to push you against the side of the truck, making you wince.

His hold was so tight on your arm, and you shrank away from him when he pressed his nose to yours. His chest and shoulders were heaving, so you knew that he was beyond annoyed, now, but the stubborn part of you that reared its ugly head sometimes only stared back at him with trembling lips.

“I really don’t have time for this, tonight,” he whispered. “Get in the fucking truck, so we can go home.”

“You kicked me out! You go home…and I’ll just walk,” you tearfully spat, attempting to get out of his hold. “It’s what you wanted, anyway.”

Rafe’s impatience was bleeding through as you tried to get past him. One of his arms secured itself around your waist, the other gripping your arm as you attempted to grab that one. You were a mess of limbs and tears as you begged him to let go of you, Rafe’s low voice telling you to get it together.

You weren’t surprised when you found yourself harshly thrown to the ground.

You cried out when your chin bounced off of the pavement, unable to stop your fast descent in time. You heard Rafe curse from above you as a loud sob escaped, and you reached up to touch your chin, attempting to push yourself up. Rafe—in his haste—beat you to it though, grabbing you and forcing you to your feet. You could feel wetness on your chin as he forced you to the passenger side, quite literally shoving you into the truck.

You flinched when he slammed the door shut, tearful gaze focused on the glove compartment as he angrily joined you. When he told you to put on your seatbelt, you reluctantly did with trembling fingers, a choked cough escaping as you tried to stop crying. You couldn’t.

Rafe didn’t say a word to you the whole way back to his house, but you could feel his gaze on you every now and then. He didn’t turn on the radio, the only sound in the vehicle was that of your harsh wails. When he finally did stop in his yard, you both sat there for some time before a long sigh reached your ears.

“You know how I get,” you eventually heard him say. “You know I wouldn’t just…leave you out there.”

You didn’t say anything because you had nothing to say. You heard him shift, and you flinched again when the tips of his fingers grazed your face, his other hand coming up to gently take your chin. Turning you to face him, you watched his blue eyes roam over your face, taking in your tearful cheeks and bloody chin.

“I’m sorry.”

Not only was it something you’d heard a million times before, but you also knew that it was solely in reference to your face. Rafe wasn’t apologizing for kicking you out on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Why would he apologize for that when he felt that was justified? When you said nothing in response, he opted for getting out, and when he opened your door, you hesitated before taking his offered hand.

Once you were standing before him, he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against him. You felt him press his lips into your hair, deeply inhaling. He quietly apologized again, and his words hung in the air as you knew what he wanted. Sniffling, you nodded.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “It was an accident.”

It wasn’t…because even if Rafe hadn’t explicitly tried to make you bleed, he had intended to hurt you. In these moments, in the aftermath of whatever else Rafe did, it was so easy to think to yourself that you’d leave him. It was almost too easy to hype yourself up, but then you’d think about how it felt to be on the receiving end of that emotionless stare, dead eyes gazing back at you. You’d think about the fear you’d feel whenever his hand was round your neck.

…or the feel of the barrel of a gun in your mouth.

It was so easy until you remembered that Rafe would actually kill you, and you’d learned a long time ago that Rafe wasn’t one to bluff.

You were making something to eat when you heard someone coming down the stairs, and when you glanced up, you weren’t surprised to make eye contact with Sarah. You knew she was home, and you’d heard her friends downstairs not too long ago. You surmised that they were outside waiting for her judging by her state of undress.

“Oh,” she said, sounding a little startled to see you. “I didn’t know you were still here. Where’s Rafe?”

She glanced towards the stairs, and you confirmed her suspicions that he was indeed gone.

“He went to the club with Kelce and Topper.”

You gave her a shrug, answering her silent question.

“I didn’t really feel like going.”

It wasn’t a lie, but you also knew that even if you did feel like going, it probably wouldn’t have gone over well. The last time you went to the country club with Rafe, it didn’t exactly end the best. Running into some of his more casual friends had apparently sparked a conversation that you unfortunately bore the brunt of. It amazed you, really, how Rafe wanted both an attractive girlfriend his friends could envy him for while also losing his mind if said friends dared to say it.

“Oh,” she said again, a little more dejected this time.

Your attention was focused on your food, so you didn’t even realize Sarah was still lingering about until she spoke again.

“We’re going to the beach,” she suddenly blurted out, and you’d guessed as much at the sight of her bikini top. “You should come with us.”

At that you paused, giving her a questionable look that conveyed exactly what you were thinking. Sarah sighed, dropping her bag to the floor before nearing you with a roll of her eyes.

“I know that we’re not friends,” she slowly started, scrunching her face. “…but you’ve been dating my brother for like, what, two years?”

You glanced down at that.

“…and…I know it’s not my place, but you just seem lonely sometimes,” she hurried to continue when your gaze met hers. “I mean, I never really see you do anything that doesn’t involve Rafe. At least, not anymore.”

You swallowed at that.

“Come on, he’s at the stupid country club with his friends, and you’re just waiting for him to get back. Surely, you can’t like that.”

Sarah was more right than she knew, but you swallowed that down.

“I told you, Sarah, I didn’t want to go. I’m fine just hanging out here. I like being at your house,” you chuckled.

Sarah looked like she wanted to say something else but thought better of it. However, she did eye you though with a look you couldn’t place, and you sent her a reassuring smile as you grabbed your plate.

“You guys have fun,” you encouraged, touching her arm on your way past her.

You wondered how pathetic you’d become if your boyfriend’s younger sister was extending a hesitant offer of friendship. Granted, it wasn’t like she was outside your age group or anything, because she wasn’t, but the other circumstances surrounding your relationship just made it seem sad on your end. Your boyfriend’s little sister wanted to make up for how her brother treated you, and it was laughable in the worst way.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the sound of the hallway bathroom door opening, and you sharply inhaled as you almost quite literally ran into the last person you ever expected to see in the Cameron household. Now, you understood why Sarah had been worriedly eyeing the stairs as she asked if Rafe was home.

JJ Maybank looked just as startled to see you, but he recovered quicker than you did.

“Sorry,” you rushed out, breaking eye contact and moving to get past him.

You slowed when you recalled your brief glance at his face, guilt eating at you at the bruising that was still faint around the area of his nose. Briefly pressing your fingers to your forehead, you turned around, a little shocked to find the blond already staring at you. That discovery gave you pause, but you quickly pushed it aside.

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

You watched him raise his brows at you, but JJ otherwise said nothing, and so you elaborated.

“About your nose,” you told him, and JJ nodded in understanding. “Sure, you were being…a bit of a jerk, but Rafe shouldn’t have done that.”

At your words, you watched something flicker over his features, and the corner of his lips curved upwards just enough to be noticeable.

“You thought I was being an asshole,” he pointed out, and you snorted.

“I didn’t say that-.”

“…but it’s what you meant,” he slowly interrupted, stepping towards you.

You took note of the action, frowning a bit before glancing away.

You knew that Rafe would throw you down the stairs for even looking at JJ Maybank, let alone having a full-blown conversation with him, but the polite manner in which you’d been raised wouldn’t let you walk by the guy without saying anything in reference to Rafe’s behavior that night. Choosing to let the conversation die, you sighed.

“I just wanted to apologize for how he acted. That’s all.”

You gave him a strained smile before turning away, pausing when he spoke.

“You know, your boyfriend’s a bit of an asshole too.”

You tensed for half a second before turning to face him, stomach twisting at that mocking curve to his lips. Blinking, you wondered how to respond to that.

“That’s your opinion.”

“One you agree with,” he argued with a slow smile, studying your face as he pulled his lip between his teeth. “I can tell. You think he’s an asshole too. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be apologizing on his behalf.”

Maybe it was because Rafe took JJ’s actions that night out on you, but you actually felt yourself getting irritated.

“I wouldn’t have to apologize for anything if you hadn’t been trying to provoke him. We all know what he’s like, and you two don’t exactly have the best history,” you shrugged.

The other man didn’t respond right away, simply leaning against the wall with one hand shoved into his pocket. You felt a little self-conscious the longer he stared at you, doubly so when his blue gaze lowered. Having expected no one outside of immediate family to be in the house, you were only sporting one of Rafe’s shirts. It came down to your knees, but in front of JJ, you might as well had been wearing a thong.

It's how Rafe would see it, anyway.

“Is that what you do?”

At your blink of confusion, he continued.

“When he’s being…well…Rafe, do you tell yourself that’s just how he is and you know what he’s like and so you should know better?”

JJ’s words struck a nerve, more than he’d ever know, and you glanced away. You guessed that your silence was answer enough, and when you looked back to him, he was nodding to himself.

“Sounds to me like you need a better boyfriend,” he told you with an amused smile, shrugging at you.

Realizing that this conversation went far beyond what you intended, you chose not to dignify that with a response. You could still feel the heat of his gaze as you walked to Rafe’s room, and when you paused with your hand on the knob, you glanced up to catch his eye. JJ hadn’t moved, at all, simply opting to stare at you, blond hair messy in a way that Rafe’s would never be.

You recalled what Rafe said about JJ being trouble, and it was only then did you consider he might be trouble in a way you hadn’t thought about before. When the sound of Sarah’s voice traveled upstairs, JJ’s name in the air, only then did he glance over his shoulder, and you took that opportunity to lock yourself inside of your boyfriend’s room.

[lvmimis]

cw: platonic!zoro x reader. established romantic relationship with luffy. selfship-coded, reader has a devil fruit.

It’s not often that you and Zoro end up alone together, but today it really is just the two of you, him carrying the majority of the provisions you’d gone into town to collect for the next leg of your trip, and the remainder in the safekeeping of your internal storage. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to just stow away the rest?” you ask for the third time and by this time, Zoro decides to pretend he can’t hear you. In any other scenario, you’d make a comment about him needing to get over that silly fear of being emasculated, but for now you allow it, shoving your free hands in your pockets as you continue on on your stroll.

Even if when you’re around the rest of the crew there’s a huge and frequent show of you generally disliking each other, it’s hard to bicker when it’s just the two of you, because the truth is that you appreciate him tremendously. Zoro doesn’t always talk much, but he’s honest, and that is particularly important to you, making it easy to pour out your heart to him.

Perhaps that’s why today, you feel compelled to tell him exactly how you’ve been feeling these days since your return from the last island. Luffy has been asleep for days, recovering from injury that would probably have killed you on the spot, and while he apologized upon waking up two days ago to see you saddled with huge undereye circles and an open book with tear-staged pages at the foot of his bed, the fact of the matter is that you’re not sure how much longer you can handle this.

The crew is familiar with his wanton disregard for his own life, and perhaps you should know better by now, but it’s just too hard sometimes, and you can feel your heart starting to fill with resentment, and even that adds to your guilt.

Luffy is free, and freedom means choosing to live your life however dangerously you want.

“You know I hate complaining about him, and I know you’ll just tell me that I shouldn’t expect otherwise from Luffy, but just once, I wish he would take better care of himself.”

The thought slips out in a small voice, and Zoro lets it marinate in the quiet afternoon air. Discomfort rises like bile in your throat.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” you immediately backtrack, but Zoro looks at you and shrugs.

“I get it. It’s fine.”

You bite your lower lip, keeping the gaze at the ground before you. Zoro should know that you’re only frustrated, that you love Luffy more than anything, and don’t mean to speak ill of him, right? It’s just eating at you, the idea that only one of you is preoccupied with the idea of separating for good.

Luffy would be fine without you even in death. You, on the other hand…

You take in a deep breath.

“I trust him,” you say out loud, to which Zoro chuckles to himself for a moment, which makes your cheeks warm in embarrassment.

“What’s so funny?!”

“That you’re this worried about him.” Zoro shoots you a glance, and mercilessly adds - 

“Realistically, you’d probably croak before he does.”

“Wow!” you exclaim in dramatized offense. 

Zoro shrugs. “I mean, I guess he probably cares enough about you that he wouldn’t allow that to happen, but still, I don’t think much can put that guy down for good.”

You pout, but something about that is reassuring, and that heaviness in your chest seems to alleviate just so.

“I guess that’s a relief.”

Zoro snorts again, which has you frowning at him again.

“Is it really this funny?” you ask, indignantly, but when he finally speaks again, his tone is serious.

“I think you’re misunderstanding him a bit,” he finally adds. Stopping for a moment, he gives you his full attention, and suddenly your heart starts to thump at the change in mood. He sizes you up for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide if what he has to tell you is worth it in any way, then lets out a sigh.

“He told me if something ever happened to him, there are a few things he wants to make sure happen for you, so that you’re okay.”

Your eyes widen for a moment, incredulous.

“What?”

Zoro resumes his stride.

“Can’t tell you what they are, though.”

You find yourself running to catch up to him, your heart pounding in your chest. The idea that Luffy has thought ahead, considering you even in the process, is almost too good to be true. 

“So what was the point of even telling me?!” you hiss.

“So you don’t make up some narrative about not being cared for in your head, dumbass.” Zoro says. You stick your tongue out at him which has him scoff and look away, but you’re thankful.

The ship starts to reappear along the horizon and your outlook has changed a bit.

…

By the time you make it back on the ship again, Luffy has woken up from his restorative slumber and is already asking you if you brought any meat amongst your groceries, an arm looping around your shoulders and your waist. But instead of pushing him off of you for grabbing you too quickly, you look at him for a moment, and the sudden affection in your eyes is enough that it actually catches him by surprise.

“Hey, ___, what’s up?” he asks as you really take him in, but you just smile and plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Nothing. I’m just glad you’re back.”

He grins widely. 

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried.”

[ew-selfish-art]

DP x DC AU: Letters and Paper goods are easy to store, and therefore, easy to hide. Danny has drama to monger though.

Tim Drake becomes a ward of Bruce Wayne at the same time the Drake Corporation is crumbling, and his father's health is declining. Dana, his father's physical therapist turned new wife, isn't optimistic these days, and Tim can read the writing on the wall.

Times have changed and Bruce and Dick are treating him with kid gloves. Jason Todd is alive again, been there suffered that. Young Just-Us has proven yet again to be his true family... But Bruce 'welcomes' him home the second the fake uncle is sniffed out.

So, Tim rationalizes, If Drake Corp is going down, then so shall the reason he spent his childhood abandoned. The many, many archeology digs his parents left him for over the years and their many, many stolen historical pieces. Tim is ready and able to get rid of them all.

He first returns the artifacts that have obvious origins to the people with whom they belong. Then it starts to get a little hazy as to where each item stolen is from. The paper goods are the hardest to place.

Years later, Tim has almost completely emptied his parent's old home of their stolen goods. By now, he runs a fortune 500 company and is working as Red Robin. Going through the last of the archives means going through the very last objects his parents ever preferred over his company, and he can't wait to be rid of them.

A glowing green envelope however... this one he feels compelled to keep. He hadn't known it back when he started this project- but somehow his Parents had found objects drenched in the essence of the Lazarus Pits. And it wasn't just one letter, it was dozens and dozens.

Tim Drake knew it would be risky to move them, but he needed to get these letters to an ex-league member to understand what the language of the dead was trying to proclaim.

_____

Danny hates a fetch quest but apparently Ghost Writer is having a bad day. It starts with Danny running by the guys library to have a chat when all of a sudden, the question of certain... ghost relations... came up. Danny is always more than thrilled to hear about how the various ancient-as-in-old ghosts interacted with the Ancients-as-in-yikes ghosts.

Ghost Writer finally admitted to the monarch in training that if he wanted to know so badly, that he could track down Clockworks old letters. They'd been scattered well before Ghost Writer could properly work on the ghost archives (read: was still alive), and it wasn't until he'd long worked on the library that such affairs were noted as missing.

The potential for gossip was just too good! A call home to Sam, Tuck and Jazz to let them know he was on an adventure, and then Danny flew off with little more than some hints by GW and an annoyed nod of cryptic agreement by CW.

Danny goes about wondering Gotham as himself, not yet seeing the need to be Phantom, when he runs into the very guy he was looking for.

"Hey- you don't happen to have a shit ton of letters written in the language of the dead do you?" Danny smiles as innocently as possible as he watches all seven stages of grief play out on the guy's face. Then something changes and Danny can tell that this guy is like, scary competent.

"I do, however, I was double crossed and a shit ton of assassins are on their way to try and take them."

"Uh... Bummer for them I guess? I'll just take them and go- I don't even really need to keep them if you want em back-"

"Assassins. They won't exactly leave empty handed."

"Huh. Well... Wanna come with? These are supposed to have some pretty juicy drama in them." Danny awkwardly places a hand on the back of his neck.

A knife being thrown in their direction was enough to get this guy to make a decision.

"Let's go spill some tea then."

Danny grins as he pulls the guy through a rapidly drawn portal, ignoring the wide eyes he makes. Turns out his name is Tim, and walking him through afterlife drama is the best- how does he know so many dead assassins??? One of these letters is about a guy who took Tim's spleen??

[dreaminofdixon]

I always felt like more of a queen.

A/N:

Here’s another snippet from my story—one that I genuinely enjoy re-reading. I often find myself revisiting my work, not just because I love the story itself, but because I’m always making adjustments. Perfectionism keeps me tweaking things, even when I’m happy with how the narrative unfolds.

At its core, this story is about a relationship that begins with hostility—quite literally at gunpoint—and gradually evolves into something deeper. For me, the journey is the most compelling part. This particular moment is where the "Princess" nickname first comes into play.

__________

“Gettin’ dark.” 

I jumped, nearly spilling the precious fuel, and turned to glare at him while he put his weapon over his back. 

“Really, Daryl?!” 

He casually leaned against the car, obviously pleased with himself. A full day of riding had him looking the slightest bit more relaxed than usual and I was here for it. 

But he couldn’t know that.

“Why do you have a thing for scaring me? It’s rude.” I pushed him before returning my attention to the project at hand. “And yes, it’s getting dark,” I shot him a look, “thank you for pointing that out.” 

“Jus’ sayin. Should get settled b’fore long.” He glanced over my shoulder before looking back at me. “If yer out too much longer, lemme know an’ I’ll walk ya.” 

The corner of my lips curled up into a smirk and I faced him, hand on hip. 

“Are you…concerned for my safety?” 

“New place.” He brushed it off. “Dunno wha’s ‘round here.” 

“Well, I’m glad to know you care.” I held up the half-empty gas can. “I figured you’d wanna top off the bike?” 

“Yes’m.” 

He took it from me and I expected him to leave, but he stayed right where he was at and watched me pour a portion of the next can into the car. 

“Something I can help you with?”

“Jus’ makin sure ya don’ spill.” 

“I worked in construction once upon a time,” I told him while I focused on tipping the can into the tank just enough. “Not like…on job sites and stuff.” Carefully, I pulled it away and put the gas cap back on before moving to the next vehicle. “I was the office girl, obviously. But I learned a thing or two. Pumping gas was one,” the gas cap popped off the truck, “filling gas cans to take a couple gallons to guys on job sites, you know,” I explained. “And siphoning gas for just such an occasion.” I smiled to myself when I remembered that day. “I did have some good times. What about you?”

“Always a grease monkey. Tha’s how I know bikes.” 

“Oh really? So you are quite handy to have around. Not just a pretty face and a sterling personality,” I teased. 

I’m pretty sure he blushed. 

“I don’t think people give you enough credit, Mr. Dixon.” I finished emptying my gas can in the truck before I moved to face him and leaned my hip against it. “Truly. I think there’s more to you than you let on, and I can’t wait to learn everything there is to know.” 

“Not much t’ know.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Hey, did you finish fueling up the truck?” 

The blonde approached us and I shook my head. I let my gaze linger on him for just a second longer before turning to her with a smile.

“Nope. If you wanna take over, I don’t think it needs much more.” 

“Great.” She moved between us and set to work. “How much do you think we’ll need for the RV?” She shot a glance at me and then Daryl. 

I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. 

“Not sure. Probably quite a bit, I’d think, but he would know better than I do.” 

“Ladies,” Shane interrupted, “it’s gettin’ dark. We’ve got some cars cleared out, and Lori and Carol put bedding and a light in each of them. Why don’t ya leave the fuelin’ for the mornin’ and go get settled in?”

“Sure.” She emptied the rest of the fuel can and put the cap back on the tank. “This one’s done anyway.” 

Shane took the tank from her and grabbed the other. 

“Come on, I’ll show ya to your spots.” 

“I’m gonna grab something from the RV,” I said. “I’ll find my way in a minute.” 

“We’ll wait…” 

“I’ll be fine. If I take too long, Daryl can walk me.” Turning to him, eyebrow raised, assumption made. “Unless…you don’t want to.” 

“‘s fine,” he grumbled. 

The two headed down the freeway, talking quietly to themselves and leaving us behind. 

“If you don’t want to…” 

“Can’t have ya walkin’ ‘round in the dark by yerself. Go get yer shit.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to get,” I admitted sheepishly. “Just didn’t want to be whisked away in the middle of such a scintillating conversation.” I followed him to the motorcycle and carefully traced my fingers over the chrome handlebars while he worked. “Plus, I know it’s crazy, but I kinda like spending time with you.” 

He filled the tank silently.

“I know it’s pure torture for you, though, and I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience.” 

He scoffed, “no ya don’t.” 

“You’re right. I don’t. Because I don’t think it’s torture.” 

He set the gas can down and screwed the cap back on the tank before pulling a dirty red cloth from his back pocket and wiping it down. 

“I like to think that, somewhere deep inside, you enjoy spending time with me, too. Could just be wishful thinking but…” I shrugged my shoulders. 

“If it ain’t,” he mumbled while he focused on his task.  

“If it isn’t wishful thinking, and you do actually enjoy spending time with me, then I may go so far as to say it’s possible you might like me?” 

He looked up at me, his pretty blue eyes finding mine. 

Butterflies. 

“Could be possible that I like you, in case you were wondering.” 

“Couldn’ tell.” He winked at me. 

Swoon.

He tucked the cloth back in his pocket and picked up the gas can. 

“Le’s go, Princess.” 

“Princess?” 

He gave a single nod, “fits.” 

“Does it? I always pictured myself more of a queen, actually,” I joked. 

“Nah. Princess.” 

We began our walk in the direction of the RV. 

“Queen’s gotta have a king, right?” 

“Sure,” I agreed.

“Ain’t got a king yet?”

“Well, no, not yet.” 

He tucked the can away in the RV’s storage. 

“Then yer a Princess.” 

“Fine,” I sighed dramatically, “but only you’re allowed to call me Princess.” 

“Good.” 

__________

Thank you for all the love on my other little snippet. <3 I hope you enjoy this one as much as I do!

[pome-seed]

დ1940s Loverდ

Pairing: 1940s!Bucky x 1940s!Reader

Summary: She never thought a trip to the laundromat would end in her meeting the love of her life. She never thought a trip to the laundromat would change her life forever.

A love with Bucky through the years, starting in the 30s, flowing through a raging war and a looming goodbye.

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: Fluff. Smut. Sexual Content. Angst. Sweet 1940s Bucky. Mention of war. Mention of blood and wounds and guns. 18+ MDNI

Authors Note: Hi guys! I've had this one in my closet for a while. I really love this one and hope you guys do to. There's a part 2 if you guys end up wanting it. Just let me know. But I hope you guys love this one, because I really really do! (also yes I mention a song from the 60s in this but pretend it was made 30 years before shhhhh) Comment and be kind!

She didn’t love doing laundry, but she loved the smell of fresh clothes. She also loved inventive machinery. She was young and curious, still living with her parents. They were a small family that generated a large mess. Her mother was a teacher, her father a soldier. There wasn’t much time for them all to gather at home together. So household duties usually fell on her.

So she found herself in a brand new self operating laundromat. 

The first time she visited the place, it was bustling with life. People from all around her neighborhood were marveling at the new inventive idea. She was thankful for it, too. Back home they didn’t have the money for a washing machine, and usually washed everything by hand. 

She spent two days a week in the quiet little building, washing her family's clothes and linens. She’d begun to enjoy the peace to herself.

For the first time in a while, she was the only person in the laundromat. She sat against a small bench in the center of the room, a book folded in her lap as she listened to the machines clink. 

The front door jingled, signalling another patron. She didn’t feel the need to look, content with keeping to herself. But then she heard the sound of two duffle bags hit the floor, and a very concerned sigh. She looked up to see a rather handsome looking young man staring at the machines in confusion. 

She bit back a smile as she watched him shuffle up to the orange machine, digging through his pockets for change. He glanced at the coins, then at the washer. 

“Need a hand?” She felt compelled to help him. She wasn’t one for talking to strangers, but he just looked so stupidly helpless. 

He looked surprised, embarrassment making him smile shyly. “That obvious?”

She closed her book and set it aside. “Just a bit.”

“I’ve just-” he chuckled, shrugging. “Never used one of these before.”

“Not many people have, they’re quite the feat.” She smiled, approaching him. “But they’re not that bad, trust me.” She glanced back at his two large bags. “You might be here a while, though.”

“I wish I would have brought a book. Do they have a radio?” He tilted his head at her, bright blue eyes curious.

She shook her head, “not yet.” 

He sighed, clicking his tongue. “Well I better get started then. Take mercy on me?” He blinked at her through dark lashes and a soft smile. 

She lifted a brow at him. “You might need a notebook for future use, mr…”

“Barnes, James Barnes,” he held his hand out, a charming smile spreading across his lips. “But people call me Bucky.”

She took his hand, returning his quick shake. “Bucky? Is that a nickname?” 

He nodded. “‘M middle name is Buchannon. My buddy gave me the name Bucky when we were kids.” He stuck his hand back in his pocket. “And what might your name be, doll?”

Her stomach fluttered at the name. “Y/n,” she introduced herself. “No nickname.” 

“Y/n,” the name rolled off his tongue like a purr. She suddenly felt nervous, speaking to such a handsome man. “Pretty name. So, Y/n, help me out here?”

She nodded, laughing at the kicked puppy look he had on his face. “Alright, alright.”

So she spent the next fifteen minutes walking him through the mechanics of the machines. She went a bit off topic as she rambled about the fantastical changes between old models and new. She had a knack for mechanics. 

She caught herself rambling once she realized he had his chin in his hand, his eyes fixed on her, as they sat together. “Oh- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to talk so much.” She chuckled.

He shook his head, smiling fondly. “No, no, I’m enjoying it. The technicalities behind such mundane things never really cross my mind. It’s nice to hear about how it all works. How do you know all this stuff?”

“Ah- my father, he’s a pilot. He used to build these little models when I was just a girl. He sometimes let me help him because I had smaller hands.” She wiggled her fingers at him.

He chuckled, looking at her hands. “So do you still build things? Machines like these?”

She stared at him like he had two heads. “Of course not,” she could almost laugh. “I’m a woman, can’t you tell?”

Bucky shook his head, a small smile on his lips. “Ah, so what? I’ve never understood all that.” He waved a hand. “Smaller hands are great for precise work. And I don't mean knitting.”

“Good thing I can’t knit.”

“Perfect. But can you build machines still? Have you tried since you were just a girl?” He tilted his head at her. 

She felt a bit flustered under the weight of the conversation. She’d just met him, she shouldn’t be speaking of such political matters with him. But she felt a flame flicker in her stomach under his insistence. “I haven’t tried in a long time. You don’t usually just have spare parts lying around.”

“Go to a junkyard, I knew boys back in school who scavenged for days for a bike.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh yes, I’ll just go dig through trash for a few hours. The perfect plan.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been told I’m a great strategist.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah? From who?”

“My best pal, the one digging through the trash for a bike.” He grinned, his shoulders shaking with a suppressed laughter. 

She snickered, shaking her head. “Sounds like a very honest and cooperative friendship.”

“Oh, the best around. Perfectly even. I have the ideas, he has the heart.”

“How sweet. I can only imagine the trouble you two cause.”

“Oh trust me, you don’t want to.” He gave her a mischievous look. 

“So what is it you two do in the time you’re not digging through trash and starting problems?”

“I work in the newspaper,” he calmed his laughter. “Print work. Have you ever seen a print machine?” He offered. 

“No, but I’ve always wondered.” She hummed, leaning in in interest. 

“Well, they’re just these giant hunks of metal covered in ink. I work with loading up the print machines and rolling on the ink to press into the papers. Nothin’ fancy, really. But I always get the fresh scoop of news before anyone else.” He grinned cheekily. 

“Very nice, what’s your favorite column then? Do you favor the hot gossip?”

“Oh of course. Who cares about war and politicians, when I can know who’s been caught in a public affair.”

She gasped dramatically. “What do you know?” She inched closer. 

“I’ll never tell,” he teased.

“Oh you can’t do that!”

“Oh yes I can, it's my job!”

She groaned, waving her hand at him. “I’ll get you to tell me.”

He shook his head. “How do I know you’re not secretly working for a rival reporter? This might all be a grand scheme to steal our research.” He looked around the room in dramatic suspicion. 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes that's exactly what I’m doing here.”

“See, I knew it.”

The pair spent the next two hours in lively conversation and banter. By the time their clothes were nice and dry, she was teaching him how to properly fold his clothes. He enjoyed the gentle way she scolded him. She loved the cheeky way he always had a new joke to tell. 

He exuded this comfortable confidence in himself, it was contagious. He was like a ball of light. He didn’t even notice the fond way she teased him, because all he could focus on was how enjoyable her presence was. 

Each moment with her was sparkling with life and oozing comfortable chemistry. 

By the time they had finished their laundry, he was doing all he could to stretch out the time with her. The sun was setting, casting the city in warm darkness. “Can I walk you home?” He asked, leaning against the machines.

She bit back her smile, glancing at his bags of laundry. “You want to carry all that through the city with me?”

He shook his head, then nodded at a car parked along the street. “I have somewhere to put it.”

She gaped at him, a shiver running down her spine. “You have a car?” She gasped. Nobody had a car- not normal people. The image she had been crafting of this sweet man was suddenly changing very quickly.

“It’s my family’s, we share it, of course.” He smiled at her shyly, suddenly looking a bit timid. 

“Wow,” she huffed. “Why not just drive me home then, mister Barnes?” She asked, trying to hide her shock with a bit of cheek.

 “Well because the night would end a lot sooner than I want it to.”

She hid her blush as she turned to look down the street. “Well go put your clothes away then, I’ll wait here.”

It was like the words found no end as they walked along. Bucky had taken up carrying her laundry for her, holding the basket under his arm as they walked. She was charmed by the gentlemanly act. 

“I’m-I’m serious-” Bucky cackled, almost tripping on a lift in the sidewalk. “He- he was trying to stop us from breaking news about the lawsuit, so he broke into the newsroom, and Mike got into this big fight with him-” he paused, catching his breath. “And he trapped his head in the press!”

“Oh my god- did the ink…?”

“Oh, he went down town with the headline stained into his cheek.”

She snickered, shoulders bouncing with laughter. They had started going back and forth, sharing stories of their lives- and evidently, this was his favorite as of recent. 

“Well, I don’t really have anything to beat that,” She sighed, glancing up at the stars. “I don’t get to go out and do much.”

“Why not?” He asked, composing himself.

She shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. I do love to go out, I love dancing and the theater and nature, I just love life. I just never get to go out much. My friend Betty and I used to go out together, but she has just been so busy recently, I haven’t had the chance.”

He nodded thoughtfully, chewing on his cheek in thought as they approached her front steps. “Would you like to go skating with me and my buddy this week?”

She paused, turning to look at him. “Really?”

He nodded, that cheeky smile twisting at her lips. “This friday, I’ll pick you up. You can bring your friend too.”

She couldn’t see it, but he was swallowing down a great deal of panic, awaiting her answer. She blinked at him in shock, then let out a delighted breath. “I’d love to, Bucky.”

And like that, she saw the man every week. She and her close friend would join him and his friend Steve for an event and dinner. He would pick her up from her home, greet her mother, then sweep her off for the night. 

Unlike many people their age, they never crossed that boundary of intimate friendship- not for a long time, at least. They spent their time as equals, enjoying each other's friendship and sharing life experiences. 

There was always something else there, something strong and warm and sweet, but they let it simmer and grow in quiet acknowledgment.

“Woah-!” She yelped as their seat was lifted off the ground. 

“Hold on, doll.” Bucky snickered, guiding her hands to the ropes at their sides.

From above, she could see it all. Lights and laughter blended together with the smell of cheap food and sugar. Children shrieked in laughter as they chased each other between booths. Teenagers egged eachother on in the lines leading up to the newest attractions.

She’d never been to Coney Island before Bucky. She’d never had occasion- or funds- to go. 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, staring out at all the bright lights. 

They sat on one of Bucky’s favorite rides. Steeplechase’s Parachute Ride. It was technically a hot air balloon with cords bolting it to the ground. But instead of a basket, there was a two person seater. 

“Very,” Bucky smiled, looking at the way the breeze made her hair fluff up, whisping around her face. 

She glanced back at him, one of her hands still clutching tightly at his bicep. “You ain’t smooth, you know?” She fought the smile tugging at her lips.

He pressed a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “You hurt me, sugar.” 

She snickered, looking back out over the expanse of the boardwalk and the gentle waves of the ocean. “I do apologize.”

He dropped his hand, holding the ropes. “Mhm, very sincere.” He sighed. “You like it?” he nodded at the fair. “I thought you would. I hoped you would.” He smiled softly, his ears tinged a light pink.

“You thought right. It’s pretty from up here. You know I’ve never been on a ferris wheel?” She stared over at the giant ride across the way from them.

He gaped at her. “You’re kiddin’, right?” She shook her head. “Then that’s where we’re goin’ next. I hope you ain’t afraid of heights like that.”

“We’ll just have to see.”

And they did.

 Bucky dragged her from one attraction to another. The ferris wheel was her favorite. Bucky asked her if she’d ever thought about how machines like those ones worked- opening up the opportunity for her to get lost in her fantasies. 

She of course went on, rocking their metal seat as she leaned forward to get a look at the center of the wheel. She told him about how engineers had to design all those rides, working the ins and outs for safety and functionality.

Bucky grinned from ear to ear as he listened to her, fascinated with her curious mind. 

After the ferris wheel, he took her to get a funnel cake and another pound of sugar in cheap snacks. Once she felt sick from corn dogs and cotton candy, he decided they should take a cool down walk through the games.

Each booth was decorated in gaudy stuffed animals and small toy boxes. All of the games were rigged, they both knew, but it couldn’t take from their fun. 

Bucky nearly lost his mind playing that forsaken bottleneck ring toss game. She had to drag him away before he blew another pocket of change just on the chance to win her a stupid bear.

“Come on, I wanna ride that coaster.” She snickered, taking him by the arm.

“The Cyclone? Oh sugar, I’ve got a story for you.” He trailed after her.

“If it involves you torturing poor Stevie and makin’ him throw up everywhere, I already know.” She knocked her shoulder into his.

“How do you know about that?” He smirked, slipping his hand down her lower back to guide her through the crowd. 

“At the diner last week when you went to order our shakes, Stevie told me all about your last trip here.” She snickered. “Poor boy looked traumatized!”

“He had fun,” Bucky smiled, thinking back on the day he forced his friend to ride the rollercoaster until he threw up. He remembered patting his back until he was no longer green in the face.

“Oh I’m sure you thought so. I might have to come back here with Steve next time, show him some real fun.” She huffed.

“You pickin’ sides now?” He scoffed, manoeuvring them into the line.

“Maybe.” She smirked.

Bucky leaned down a little onto her level, his blue eyes sharp against the lowering sunset. “Now, I don’t like that. I found you first.”

“I ain’t no toy, Barnes.” She poked his chest gently.

He caught her hands in his. “Oh I know. But you’re gonna hurt my ego if you go spendin’ your time with my buddy instead of me.”

“Every man's ego needs a little hurtin’ every now and then.” She smiled, ignoring the soft blush in her cheeks.

He scoffed, pulling back. “I have a feelin’ you’re gonna be showin me plenty of that.”

“Oh don’t you know it.”

“Steve, over here!” She waved her arm dramatically in the air from where she sat on her blanket. The shorter man straightened when he saw her, a timid smile lighting up his face. Not far behind him, trailed an excited Bucky. 

The sun was still warm on her skin, coloring the sky a pretty orange as it readied to set. Around her, couples and friends and families alike sat on blankets, chatting and simmering in excitement. 

It was the end of summer, early august, when the music festival rolled into town. She was beyond excited, and so were the boys. They had all grown close over their shared love of music, so she decided they would all attend together. 

“Better late than never,” she scolded softly as the pair approached. 

Steve threw a look over his shoulder at his dark headed friend. “Ask him, he had to stop twenty times for the basket.” He said as he settled on the blanket. 

Bucky set a wicker picnic basket down in front of her, before taking his seat beside her. “Hey, you say that now, but if we didn't bring food you’d be whinin’ the whole night.”

She slapped his arm for his sass, chuckling to herself. She peaked inside the basket to find a few cans of coke and some snacks. “Well I guess I can’t be too mad, thank you, Bucky,” she sent him a soft smile.

He hid his blush by looking up to find the band setting up. “I’m shocked they haven't started yet,” he muttered. 

“This is the second band,” she huffed, squinting at the boys. “You missed the first one.”

“We’re sorry, I’ll make sure to give him hell for making you wait.” Steve offered. 

She grinned, bumping her shoulder with the blond boys. “That’s why you're my favorite.” She snickered when Bucky grumbled. “Anyways, shush, they’re starting soon.”

So the trio sat together, setting out their snacks to enjoy the show together. When the music started, the woman felt herself relaxing. It was a beautiful picture, painted by the sunset and couples standing to dance. The man singing had a silky smooth deep voice, powerful in the way it carried through the park. 

She took a sip of her soda, then climbed to her feet. She left her heels on the blanket, knowing they would just sink in the grass. “Come here, Stevie, let's dance.” She held her hands out, looking at him. The boy sunk into himself, shaking his head. 

“You know I can’t-”

“Oh, but you can,” She said, grabbing his arm and dragging him up. She glanced at Bucky over the boy's shoulder, who was snickering to himself.

She took Steve’s hands in hers and started hopping around on her feet. “Come on, just move,” she giggled, spinning around with him to the upbeat music. 

Steve stumbled along, doing his best through the laughter bubbling in his chest. Bucky watched the pair, grinning as he watched his best friend having such a good time. He also couldn’t help but enjoy the moment to fondly watch the woman. 

Since they’d all become friends she had taken to the lively feeling the two gave her. Every week, Bucky looked forward to seeing her. He especially loved moments like this, watching her spin and giggle. The way the sun caught the strands of hair that slipped from her loose curls. 

She dragged Steve into a dramatic twirl as the music picked up, the pair of them almost toppling over. “Alright- alright,” Steve laughed, slowing to a stop. “I oughtta stop now before I hurt myself- or you.” 

She sighed, letting him go to sit back down. She glanced over to Bucky, who continued to watch her. “What about you, mister Barnes? Can you dance?”

He scoffed, mock offended, as he stood. “Of course I can dance.” 

“I’ll have to be the judge of that,” she smirked, holding her hands out for him. She gasped when he tugged her close, leading them into a swing. She shrieked out a laugh as he took the lead, one hand on her hip, the other in hers, spinning them around. 

Her bare feet slid across the grass, a gentle breeze rustled through the trees. They pranced dramatically in the small patch of space beside their blanket. 

“Never doubt me, doll,” he teased, twirling her. 

She grinned, spinning and tripping into his chest. Bucky let them slow down for a moment. “You call this dancing?” She poked, her hands falling to his chest. 

They’d never before been so close, but it felt so easy- like second nature. He let his hands fall to her hips, his ears tinged a soft pink. “What would you call it, hm?”

“A mess,” she teased. 

Bucky scoffed, tilting his head back to laugh. “You think you’re slick, but you’re just trying to push my buttons.” She opened her mouth for a comeback, but yelped when he swiftly dipped her. 

She gasped, tilted back far enough to fall without his steady arm. “Shocking me into silence doesn't give you the last word.” She tried to steady her breathing. 

He pulled her back up, her hands steadying herself on his shoulders. He tucked a frizzy lock of loose hair behind her ear, a grin on his lips. “I think it does.”

The knock at her front door made her heart jump. She checked her reflection in the mirror by the door. When she cracked it open, she was met with a beautifully groomed young man. He wore a dark blue suit, his hair combed back nicely, and a nice watch to match. He held a single red rose between his fingers. 

“Evening,” she greeted, holding back her excited smile. “How can I help you?”

“Good Evening. I’m here to pick up a pretty young lady for a date.” He smiled, doing his best not to shamelessly rake his eyes over her. 

“Well I’ll just have to check inside, I don’t know if I have one of those on hand.” 

He clicked his tongue, finally letting himself look over her pretty pink dress and short red heels. “I beg to differ.”

She finally let her laughter escape, letting her door swing open. “I’ll have to warn her, you’re quite bold.”

“I have a feeling she already knows.” He stepped closer. “For you,” he held out the rose to her. She grinned, taking the pretty flower in hand. She brought it to her nose to smell. 

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“It’s not as pretty as you, doll, but I do what I can.” 

She ignored the blush rising in her cheeks as she stared at the rose. “You wait here, I’ll go put it somewhere safe.” She said as she hurried down the hall to place the rose in some water. She snagged her purse from the counter, then met him back at the door. 

He held his hand out to her, a cheeky smile on his lips. She slipped her palm in his after locking the door. “So, where to tonight, handsome?” 

He tilted his head back, looking dramatically in thought. “Well, I was hoping I could treat you to a movie. Maybe… the Phantom of the Opera?” He glanced at her sideways.

She gasped, squeezing his hand. “Oh I’ve been wanting to see that!” She said excitedly. “How did you know?”

“I have my secrets,” he teased, leading her down to the car. It was a shiny and new blue 1940s cruiser sedan. She felt fancy every time she sat inside it. He closed the car door for her once she was inside, then took his own seat.

“Your secrets are going to get you in trouble one day, mister Barnes.” She squinted at him, trying to hide her smile. 

The car rumbled to life as they pulled onto the street. “You’re distracting the driver, young lady.”

“You act like such an old man,” she giggled. 

“And you act like I’m some youngster,” he grinned, turning them down another street. 

“Well in my eyes you haven't changed a bit,” she snickered at his offended expression. 

“I’ve grown quite a bit in these years, you know.” He huffed. 

“Really? I couldn’t tell.”

If he weren’t driving, he’d turn his head and glare at her softly.

.

“Tickets for two,” Bucky held up his fingers for the woman behind the glass to see. He slid the money across the small counter. She  blushed at his side, holding his arm. She knew he had money, but seeing him always spend it on her so easily got her flustered.

He guided her to the concession stand where he bought them a small bucket of popcorn- mostly for her, he barely cared for it. She was buzzing with excitement as they entered the theater. 

“You spoil me, you know?” She whispered as they took their seats.

“Oh I know,” he grinned, his blue eyes bright in the dark theater. 

“A gentleman isn’t so cheeky about it, though,” she pinched his arm.

“But a gentleman does buy his favorite girl snacks. I have good and bad, don’t I?” He set the bucket of popcorn in her lap.

She was thankful for the darkness of the theater, so he couldn’t see her warm red cheeks. “I’m your favorite?”

“My only,” he whispered, as the music of the film began. He slid his hand into hers again, interlocking their fingers. 

She bit back her smile, turning her attention to the screen. 

.

After parking outside her apartment, Bucky tugged her away from the front door. At first she was confused, but he proposed they take a quick stroll. 

She followed after him with a smile, holding him close by the arm. “It was a beautiful movie, don’t you think? I just loved the music.” She gushed. 

“It was nice,” he hummed, looking up at the night sky. “Would you fall for it? A scarred, masked man?” He glanced at her. 

“Mm, I wonder,” she pondered, spinning to stand in front of him. She held her hands up in front of his face. She squinted in thought, watching him snicker. “Maybe,” she surmised as he wrapped his hands around her wrists and lowered them. “Depends how mysterious he is.”

“Am I mysterious enough?”

“Oh, not nearly.”

He clicked his tongue, mock offended. 

“And you? If I was all scarred, forced to wear a mask and hide away, would you still long for me?” She asked, stepping closer to him. His hands fell to her waist.

“I’d long for you no matter the cause.” He muttered, glancing at her lips.

She rested her palms on his chest. “Oh yeah? What if I had no hair?”

He traced his finger along her cheek, then tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I’d think no different.”

“What if I were blind?” She closed her eyes, biting back her smile.

“I’d get to observe you freely, without worrying you’d catch me.” 

A laugh bubbled in her chest as she looked at him again. “That could sound ominous, if I didn’t know you.”

“Mysterious, even?” He grinned.

“Nope,” she smacked her red lips together. “Just ominous. Maybe you are the phantom, a voyeur, watching me from close and afar.” She whispered, leaning close. 

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’d never know. I’m too good at keeping my secrets.”

“I’ll pry them out of you one day. You could never hide anything from me for long.”

“So you say.” He grinned, glancing between her lips and pretty eyes.

She gasped dramatically. “Are you hinting that you have secrets I don’t know about?”

“Perhaps,” he whispered.

“Tell me!” She insisted, giggling as he suddenly pulled out of her space. She slipped her arm around his as he began walking them back to her apartment. “Oh please?”

He shook his head. “I have to work on being mysterious, you said so yourself.”

“Oh you can be mysterious to everyone else. I must know.” She insisted, chuckling.

“Not a chance. I’ll have to wait, confess my darkness near the end of the story.” He guided her up the front steps and towards her door.

“Any point in life could be the end of your story, mister Barnes. Might as well spill your secrets now.”

“I’m not going anywhere, doll.” He chuckled, bringing her knuckles to his lips. 

“You say that now. You’ll regret this when nobody knows your mighty secrets.” She blushed, watching him kiss the soft skin of her hands. 

“You know all the best about me, that's all I care about. And you, miss? Any dark secrets you’re dying to confess?”

She shrugged, busying her hands with adjusting his collar. “A few, but a woman should always have a few secrets for herself.”

“How contradicting.”

She smiled, stepping closer. “They say that's the perfect way to describe a woman.”

He shook his head slowly, staring down at her. “I’d describe you differently.”

“And how's that?”

“Perfect,” he whispered, a warm pink tinting the tips of his ears. She grinned up at him, brushing his jaw with her gentle touch. She leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. She pretended not to notice the way he chased the touch when she pulled back. 

“Thank you for tonight, Bucky.” She whispered. 

He nodded, his thumb rubbing circles on her hips. “I’d do it every night if I could.”

She chuckled, stepping back to open her front door. “If only,” she agreed. She paused, hand on the doorknob. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Goodnight sweetheart.”

Music wafted around them softly as Bucky held her close. Couples around them laughed, giggling into eachothers spaces. Bucky hummed softly to the lyrics, his palm sweeping down her back.

“I love this song.” She whispered against his shoulder, the gentle tune of I love how you love me by Bobby Vinton surrounding them.

“Oh yeah?” He muttered, looking down at her. 

“Mhm,” she smiled raking her nails gently through the short hairs on the back of his neck.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, a soft sigh leaving his chest. He leaned into her touch, her fingers dancing along his skin. His thumbs pressed gently into her waist as he guided their slow sway. 

He opened his eyes to see her watching him. His lips tugged into a lopsided grin. “Let me take you home.” He whispered.

“Yeah?” She muttered breathlessly.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Take me home.”

They were slow on their stroll, enjoying the feeling of the summer night air against their skin. They took their time, arms around one another as they pointed at the stars, picking out the brightest ones to name. 

There was no rush. 

There was just each other. 

So when her front door finally unlocked, and she beckoned him inside, he felt at peace. At home. 

A single lamp by the door flickered to life as she clicked it on, shedding her purse and scarf on the nearest chair. She glanced at the man over her shoulder.

“Help me with my necklace?” 

He smiled to himself, stepping into her space, her back against his chest. She plucked her earrings free as he busied his fingers with the clasp of her pearls. 

Bucky laid out the necklace on the vanity at their side, then traced his fingers along the column of her neck. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the exposed skin of her shoulder. She sighed, rolling her head to the side subtly. 

Bucky smiled to himself, dragging his lips and peppering small kisses in their wake along her throat. His hand slipped into her hair, tugging her pretty ribbon free, letting it flutter to the floor. 

She let him shower her in gentle affection, leaning back into him as his hands met her hips. She tilted her head to the side, catching his lips with her own. He hummed quietly into her mouth, warm and familiar. 

She shivered as his touch ghosted along the fabric of her back. 

 He pulled back, his lips brushing her ear, his breath warm.

“Let me, please?” He whispered, his finger toying with the zipper of her dress. 

She shuddered, nodding slowly. 

The zipper made a light buzzing sound as it released, dragging down her back. The warm air of her apartment felt fresh and prickling against her naked skin.

Bucky’s warm palms slid over her shoulders, guiding the dress to fall at her feet. He released a sharp breath against her neck as he looked down at her. 

She turned her blushing gaze to look back at him, over her shoulder.

“Oh sweetheart,” he whispered, turning her by the hips. Her hands found his chest. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, then to her jaw, letting his lips travel down her neck. To her shock, he slowly sank to his knees before her.

Her breath stuck in her chest as she watched him, slipping his thumbs beneath her stockings. 

He looked up at her, bright blue eyes, pretty pink lips, dark swept hair. He guided her tights down her thighs, his calluses raising shivers along her skin.

He traced a path down to her knees in kisses, his lips ticklish in the way they gently pressed into her. 

He slipped her heels from her feet, letting them clatter to the side. 

“Oh, Bucky,” she gasped breathlessly as he swept his tongue along her hip, just above her panties. 

“Let me take care ‘f you, sweetheart.” He muttered, his voice sounding deep against her body. 

“Okay,” she nodded. “Okay.”

When he finally shed his layers, standing before her naked and purely him, her breath hitched in her throat. He didn’t give her the time to worship how he did, as he guided her body back against the bed. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, spreading her knees to make room for himself. 

She shivered, his palms dragging patterns up her stomach and over her bare chest. She arched into it, his name falling from her lips. 

He groaned, leaning back over her. “So pretty, doll.” He slipped his fingers into his mouth, leaving his lips shiny and wet as he moved them between her legs. 

She shuddered at the first touch of him, warm and familiar, and so distinctly Bucky. “Bucky-” she moaned, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“‘M right here, doll.” He kissed along her jaw, working her open with his slow hands.

She panted, dragging her fingers down his stomach to where he was aching. He shuddered, his head dropping to her shoulder as she wrapped her fingers around him. “So good, Bucky…” she whispered.

He groaned into her neck, pulling his hands from between her legs. His tongue swept across her throat. He pulled back. 

He looked so pretty above her, cheeks flushed, lips wet, hair a mess. And those eyes. Oh those eyes.

“Let me make you feel good, pretty.” He brushed his thumb across her lips. She nodded, kissing his thumbprint. A lopsided grin sparked his expression as he dove down to kiss her. 

She giggled against him, raising her knees around his hips. 

His hand pushed between them, aligning himself. She smiled into his kiss, their foreheads pressed together.

“I love you,” he choked, rolling his hips into her. His hand found hers, fingers locking together.

She gasped, her eyes fluttering as she curled a hand in his hair. She hiccupped, blinking through tears as she rocked her hips against him. “I love you too.”

“You’re enlisting?” The words had reality setting in on her all too quickly. Like a bucket of ice water thrown over her head. The war had been raging on for a long time, taking its toll on the world and her daily life. 

She’d been called to the workforce, given an option of ways she could support her country as the men were called to battle. She’d taken her pick of chasing after something she’d long given up. She worked with other women, building engines for fighter planes and military vehicles. It was hard work, but she felt passion growing in her every time she went to work. 

It was hard to ignore the war, doing what she did, but she did her best. If she thought about it for too long, the anxiety would set in. The past grief of losing her father to the military, the fear for the future, and now, the dread of what would become of her favorite person alive.

Bucky nodded, taking his hands in hers. “I’ve already applied-”

“And you didn’t tell me first?” She wanted to pull back, hurt clear on her face.

“I’m sorry-” he stepped closer, rubbing his thumb over her knuckle. “I just- I didn’t want you to talk me out of it.”

“I-” she stopped herself, lowering her gaze to the floor between them. She couldn’t deny that she would have begged him not to. She nodded slowly. “When?”

“Not for a while, I need to train first. But after that, they’ll be shipping me off immediately, I assume.” 

She swore at herself internally for the tears that burned behind her eyes. Why was she being so dramatic? This didn’t have to mean forever. It didn’t have to mean the end.

“Sweetheart, look at me, please.” He begged, his warm hand cupping her cheek. She slowly lifted her gaze to his. His expression softened, a sigh leaving his lips. “It’s gonna be okay, sugar.” He whispered, pulling her into a hug. “I’ll be okay. I’m good when I listen, even better when I try. I’ll be okay.”

She buried her face in his chest, clutching at his back. She nodded slowly. “Will you write to me?”

“Every damn day,” he whispered into her hair.

“Promise you’ll be careful?”

He nodded. “Of course, there’s no way I’m staying away for longer than I have to. Not when I have you waiting on me.”

Her stomach flipped at his direct words. She blinked away the tears in her eyes and nuzzled closer to his chest. She took a moment to listen to the sound of his chest rising and falling with breath. He was alive, and he would stay that way. He had to. “Does Steve know?”

He nodded. “He won’t quit trying to enlist with me.”

She pulled back, her hands on his waist. “He won’t give up, you know.” She lifted a brow. “That man has the heart of a lion.”

Bucky smiled, his own chest swelling with affection for the woman who loved his best friend with such intensity. “I know, but there’s other ways to help.”

“I could say the same thing to you.” She poked his chest. He caught her hand, his smile softening. 

“Too late.”

“Clearly.”

The train station smelled of smoke and oil.

Children cried from the sidelines, clinging to their fathers as they said goodbye. Carts of luggage rolled past. Brothers and friends cheered as they waved to each other, boarding the train.

She couldn't focus on any of it.

Bucky's lips pressed against hers, bruising and warm. His strong hands pressed against her lower back, curled in her hair. She trembled in his arms, hair nails biting into the green of his uniform.

He pulled back, his forehead resting against hers. His breath trembled against her skin.

"I'll be seeing you," she whispered, caressing his jaw.

He nodded against her, his lips twitching up. "I'll be back before you know it."

"You better." She huffed.

When he slipped from her fingers, moving towards the train as soldiers called, announcing final boarding, she felt her heart go with him. She tried not to cry. She didn't want to cry. She wanted him to remember her smiling.

He was only leaving for training. This didn't mean forever. But it felt like it.

He watched her from the window. He shoved it open and stuck his head out. "I mean it doll, I'm coming back for you." He shouted, a toothy grin flashing.

She shook her head at him, holding back a teary laugh. She stumbled forward, reaching up to catch his hand. "Sergeant Barnes, you better write me every damn day."

She wished she could reach him further. She wished she could pull him back into her arms.

He huffed, squeezing her fingers. The train blared, signaling its soon departure. He looked up to the cop patrolling the station. "Hey man, help me out here?" He shouted.

She glanced back, the large officer approaching her with a huff. She could guess he'd been doing this all day. She yelped as he lifted her from beneath the arms and boosted her up to the window.

Bucky leaned out further, his palms sliding along her jaw. He captured her lips in a desperate kiss, a desperate goodbye. She swallowed a choked whimper, her fingers curling in his hair.

"I love you, baby." He whispered against her lips.

She nodded, blinking away tears. "I love you too."

She wiped the back of her hand against the scarf in her hair, blue paint making her fingers sticky. The air smelled of oil and metal, the sounds of drills and shifting propellers causing a ruckus of noise.

She was slow and precise as she painted out the American insignia along the wing of a plane in the works. 

“Have you taken a break yet, ma’am?” A familiar voice called to her from behind. She nearly dropped her brush when she saw him. 

“What are you doing here?” She laughed, setting the paint can on the floor. She jogged up to him, wrapping him in a quick hug as he lifted her off the ground. 

“What, I can’t come visit my best girl?” He grinned, setting her back on the ground.

She swatted his arm, pulling back to look at him clearly. He looked just the same, tall, charming, and handsome. She last saw him three months ago, when he received his first leave to visit home since he started training. “No, you can’t, not unless-” her smile dropped. 

His expression turned shy and guilty. 

“You’ve finished your training?”

He nodded, his warm hands rubbing gentle circles on her waist. “Came here straight away. I wanted to see you.” 

She cupped his face, cradling him in her touch. “So you’re leaving then? Do you know where?”

“They’re shipping me off to Europe in two days time.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Wait here,” she pulled back.

He laughed in shock. “Where are you going?”

“To ask if I can leave early. You’re not leaving until you give me a dance first.”

.

Rain hailed down from the sky with vengeance, like God was warning her of future hardships. She peaked through her curtains, her stomach twisting. “I guess we aren’t going out tonight, are we?” She muttered, glancing back at Bucky, where he stood in her living room. 

The man was sifting through her records, picking one out. “That doesn’t have to change anything.”

She watched as he set the record on her record player. The music clicked on, filling the small apartment with warmth. He held his hand out to her expectantly. “Come here.”

She softened at the sight of him, gentle and sweet. She took his hand and allowed him to lead them into a slow sway. She rested her cheek against his chest, her eyes sliding closed. He hummed softly, his fingers tapping against her waist. 

She wanted them to stay in that moment forever, suspended in intimacy. She didn’t care what it looked like to other people, a man and woman, unmarried, dancing in her apartment. She didn’t care that she was different, or that he was different. She didn’t care that he had to leave, and that there was a war raging on outside.

 She just wanted to be with him.

“Do you remember when I helped you move?” His voice broke the soft silence, melting together with the music. She nodded into his chest.

“How could I not? The way you came crashing into everything.” She chuckled softly. 

“You make me sound like some rambunctious kid.” He huffed.

“Oh, well that's because you are.” She giggled.

“I beg to differ,” he denied.

“Oh really? You’re all grown up now then, I guess?”

“Mhm, big and strong.” He smiled down at her, that familiar charm oozing from his very being.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she said the title, trying to get comfortable with the word. “Very grown indeed.” It felt bitter sweet on her tongue. 

He softened, rubbing his hand down her back as they swayed. “I’ll be okay.” He whispered. 

She nodded, sliding her arms around his neck. “Promise you won’t change?”

He shrugged cheekily, “maybe, who knows? I might come back with a mustache and a German accent.” He teased.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’d leave you high and dry,” she huffed.

“No you wouldn’t.”

“No,” she sighed, “I wouldn’t.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, letting the music fill the loaded silence between them. He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, and she realized his hands felt rougher. Calloused from hard training. 

“Promise you’ll still love me?”

“There’s nothing in the world that could change that, doll.” He told her, his blue eyes sharp in the warm lamp light of her living room. “Nothing.”

“Promise you’ll come back to me?”

“I promise.”

Dear Y/n,

We have made it safely to Italy. It’s quite beautiful here, I think you would like it. I already feel my chest aching when I think of you. I miss you dearly. When I return home, I will take you to a nice Italian restaurant and tell you about all the words I’ve learned here. 

Yours,

J. Bucky Barnes

★

Dear Y/n, 

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking of our future, and honey I quite like it. I can picture nights in your arms, lulled to sleep under the melody of your voice. Until then, I’ll dream of you, and tell stories of your eccentric soul. The boys shame me for not bringing a pair of your pantyhose with me, I’ll have to remember it for later. 

Yours,

J. Bucky Barnes

★

Dear Y/n, 

I’d give my left arm to be with you right now. I guess I’m really in love with you doll, in fact beyond the guessing stage, it’s a fact. I love you very very much, darling, and will be the happiest guy in the country when you are Mrs. Barnes. I miss you every day. 

Yours,

J. Bucky Barnes

She had to make a choice. Blood, or metal. It wasn’t something she thought she’d have to weigh when she was a child, but it was something she was now faced with. 

Since Bucky’s deployment, she spent her time working hard on the machines she was tasked with repairing and manufacturing. She was taking Red Cross training on her weekends, as recommended by the Sergeants running her warehouse. Almost all the women were. 

It meant a constant stick of needles in her arms, and a constant stench of blood. There were days when she was run out of the warehouse, ordered to pursue her duties as a healer of sorts. 

She didn’t much enjoy it.

In fact, she detested it. Having to be faced with the reality of how violent this war was just made her sick. It made her afraid. It made her dread each letter she received, fearing one would read condolences about her long time lover. 

“Steve?” The woman gaped at the hulking form sitting at the bar. “It really… geez.”

The blonde turned around, a bright smile on his face as he saw the girl. “Hi,” his voice was still soft and timid, a far contrast from his new body. He wrapped her in a quick hug before gesturing for her to join him.

“I mean, look at you!” She laughed, feeling meek under his broad form. “Did it hurt?” She muttered, poking him in the arm. 

“A bit.” He chuckled. 

“Shouldn’t you have stretch marks, or something? I’d think your skin would tear open around all… that.” She gestured at him. The bartender came over and took her order. She had a martini, extra olives. 

He bit back a snicker. “I thought so too- but I guess not. Most of the technical talk went right over my head.” He took a swig from his cup.

She bit into an olive once her glass was set before her. “It’s quite impressive.” She nodded. She took a moment to really take him in, and all the things that had changed in just a few months. He still had that boyish smile, his top lip disappearing against his teeth. He had that soft gaze, still nervous to look people in the eyes. But he was different. 

Something beyond the physical.

He was changed by what had happened to him, by what he was capable of. “How are you?” She muttered, glancing down at her drink. She stirred the clear liquid with her toothpick, her lip tucked between her teeth as she thought of all that changed. 

“I don’t know.” He admitted. “It all feels-” he let out a heavy sigh. “I should be out there. With him.”

She nodded, feeling that bittersweet roll of her stomach every time she thought of him. It had only been a few months, but it felt like eternity. They went from seeing eachother once a week, holding each other in their arms, to a letter every now and then. 

“How do you think he’s doing?” 

He huffed, his lips curling in a laugh. “I think he’s doing just fine. He’s too stubborn to die.”

She snickered, sipping on her drink. “Now that I can agree.”

.

“Oh come on! You have to ask her out, Steve!” She gasped, slapping at her friend's shoulder. 

He shook his head, his cheeks flushed pink. “We’re in the middle of war. She’s- she’s busy. I barely even see her now, with the tour and all.”

“Oh yes, the tour.” She waved her hand. “But like you said, we’re in the middle of a war. There's no time to wait around.” She grinned over the lip of her glass.

He rolled his eyes at the girl. “You are one to talk, hon.” He squinted at her. “Everyone around us is running to the chapel in the wake of battle. Why aren’t you?” He raised a brow at her. 

She blinked at him, her cheeks flushing red. “Steve!” She laughed nervously. “You can’t exactly head to the chapel alone.”

“You know what I’m talking about. Why didn’t you two do it? Before he left?”

She felt stiff, her stomach twisting. She stared at the chipped wood of the bar. “I don’t know, really.” She muttered, her chest feeling sore. “I do wish-” she huffed, slapping a hand over her eyes. “We wanted to wait, you see? I knew he wanted to enlist, and he knew how hard it would be. We wanted to wait until he was home for good.” 

Thinking back on it now, she wished she would have dragged him to the chapel years ago. She wished she would have slipped a ring on his finger and planted a kiss on those pink lips long ago.

“Don’t wait, Steve. Just don’t.”

She, much to her own shock, was deployed. Not as a soldier, but as a medic and mechanic. The Red Cross was tasked with touring Europe, giving blood and aid wherever they could. She didn’t think she would be asked, but with her experience building and repairing engines, they decided she would be a rather nice asset. 

She wrote to Bucky, informing him of her shocking travels, hoping to hear from him before she left. The sad fact was that she hadn’t heard from him in weeks. The reality of that set her skin on fire, but she always took a moment to remind herself that no news is good news. An empty mailbox also meant there wasn’t a condolence letter waiting on her.

She wanted to write to Steve, but he was also on tour. Traveling the country- and even Europe- to uplift the spirits of the masses. So with only a few dear goodbyes to loved ones still back home, she set off to Europe. 

After only a few days, she found herself in Azzano Italy. She felt excitement buzzing in her veins at the thought of being in the same place as Bucky again. 

He took a piece of her heart with him when he left, and it now ached to seal that hole. 

Much to her dismay, the 107th infantry regiment wasn’t likely to just be sitting back at the base. They were gone, fighting a war that seemed impossible to end. 

She thought she would feel better, being so close- knowing he could return any day. But she was so deeply wrong. She spent her days in a stained tent, staunching wounds with her bare hands, begging death not to take another good man. 

She was faced with the most raw reality of the war. And suddenly she dreaded seeing Bucky. She feared seeing his beaten face be dragged onto a table before her, bleeding and dying right before her eyes. 

In her moments of reprieve, she found herself growing close with the infamous Peggy Carter. She was the only woman in the base that had a position of power. She held herself with a steady confidence, unafraid to put a doubtful man in their place. She was so deeply kind to the woman, though. Which she was beyond grateful for.

She always made sure to bite back her grin whenever Peggy asked about Steve. She wished she could scold the boy for not writing to the woman sooner. She always said as much.

Everything was wrong.

Everything was wet, soaked in mud, and rain, and blood.

Body after body was dragged into her tent. The screams of men pierced her ears, rattling in her bones. 

One, two, seven, eighteen, twenty nine, the numbers kept growing- but not enough. 

Not enough.

She searched the faces desperately, her fingers stained with the blood of dozens as she sifted through bodies. 

He wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t with them.

He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t alive.

He was just gone.

She collapsed into soft mud and threw up everything in her stomach. 

She could hear the women singing from her tent at the center of the base. She couldn’t bring herself to move from her cot. Was it Steve? She wondered, she wished, she prayed. But she just couldn’t move. Her body felt devoid of life. 

It had been days. 

It had been an eternity since news came of the ambush. 

It had been a lifetime since she saw him. 

She was on the verge of being shipped home, the nerves and grief weighing her down so heavily she could barely focus. She spent every waking moment on her feet, tending to the dying. And when she wasn’t doing that, she was doing everything she could not to get sick- sobbing so heavily that her throat closed around dry heaves. 

She searched for his face everywhere she looked. 

He was never there.

“Y/n?” The familiar voice had the woman stumbling on her feet, blood soaked hands wiping hair from her face. 

“Steve.” She gaped at the man, her eyes welling up with tears. “Oh, Stevie,” she whimpered, falling into him. “Steve, he-”

“I know, I know.” He whispered, rubbing a fast hand along her back. “But listen, I’m going to find him, okay? I’m going after the 107th.”

The words felt like a fantasy to her ears. Like a far fetched dream- one only Steve could cook up. She looked up at him, her brows knit together deeply. “But-”

“I’m going.” His voice was quick and hard, like he was afraid she may try to stop him. “I have to- I-I have to.”

“You have to,” she whispered, clutching the dark green coat he wore. “You- I have to know.” She tried to steady the shake in her voice. “I can’t take not knowing.” Looking to the side, she wiped her cheek on her shoulder. “I need to- I need to know…”

“I’m leaving tonight,” he set a familiar hand on her shoulder. “Be safe, okay?”

She smiled wryly up at the large man. “Back at you.”

The sounds of men cheering from afar broke the silent prayer the woman was whispering over her cot. Her whole body went rigid, her blood ran cold. 

They were back.

She nearly tripped over the opening of her tent as she scrambled outside. They had been gone two days at most, but it felt like an eternity. It felt like her own world was slowly crumbling around her. Like the truth was slowly chasing her down. 

A truth she couldn’t bear.

A truth so sick, so deeply wretched, it might destroy her. 

A truth she was coming to slowly accept.

But then she saw him.

Standing there, beside a man dressed in the flag of freedom, was the love of her life. 

Dirty, bruised, beaten and bloody, but alive. 

Alive.

Her feet carried her the rest of the way, her mind taking time to catch up. His name left her lips in a cry, desperate for this to be real. Sharp blue eyes met hers, the set of his jaw loosening.

A sob left her throat as she threw herself at him- a rifle jabbing into her chest between them. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, pulling him so close he was almost one with her. 

The rifle fell at their feet. 

Arms wrapped tightly around her waist, lifting her feet from the mud. She sobbed freely into his collar, her fingers curling in his hair. He whispered into her shoulder, his voice ragged and tired. 

He repeated her name, chanting it like a prayer. 

“You’re here- you’re here…” 

She only noticed it then, but he was trembling. He swayed on his feet, holding her firm to his body. The sickening thought of what he may have endured crossed her mind. “You’re alive-” She cried, tears mixing with the sweat on his neck. 

The men around the couple whooped and hollered, cheering for a very singular type of victory. A very foreign one. One of love.

He lowered her slightly to stand on her own, his body slumping against hers; he longed desperately to fall into her, to find peace in her arms. She petted his hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple. “You’re okay…you’re okay…”

The train ride to England was spent in quiet whispers and gentle bandaging. The woman helped her wounded soldier into a cabin, helping him ease onto his seat. The adrenaline rush that had kept him running for so long was slowly fizzing out, and it was wearing on him.

She knelt before him, a medics bag at her side. 

Finally alone, she held his face in her hands, her thumb gently caressing his bruised cheek. His bruising looked peculiar to her eye, oddly but specifically shaped. She traced the purple lines. 

“I thought…” She swallowed, her voice cracking in the silence. He looked up at her through his lashes, his posture hunched. “I thought I lost you.”

He pressed into her touch, his palm covering hers. “I know,” he was weak, tired, and in pain, but he relished this moment with her. “I thought I was dead…”

Her heart ached in her chest, ideas of what he endured torturing her. “What…What happened?” She traced her knuckles along the soft part of his cheek. 

He shook his head slowly, shivering as memories flashed behind his eyelids. “I don’t know.” He started, leaning closer to her. “I was out of it- they gave me something. It felt like fire in my veins.” He swallowed, staring down at his hands in his lap. She realized he was afraid of what they’d done. Maybe it was poison. Maybe something else.

She nodded, gently petting his face. “We’ll fix it. Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

He glanced up at her through his lashes, his lip bitten between his teeth. He returned her soft nod, turning to press his lips to her palm.

She leaned up on her knees to pull him into a soft hug, rubbing her hand down his back. He rested against her shoulder. 

She watched the world pass by outside the window, pine trees wheezing by in a flurry of green. 

“You joined the Red Cross.” He muttered against her shoulder, his voice soft. 

“Mhm,” she hummed, raking her nails up his neck. “Didn’t have much of a choice at first. But I’m so glad I did,” she pressed her lips to his hair. 

He pulled back, cupping her face in his large palms. “I love you so much,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses to her lips. She let out a shaky breath, pressing closer. In the back of her mind, she could barely remember the last time they really kissed. He was always so gentle with her. She loved that about him.

But this moment, this kiss, it wasn’t even really about the act. It was about intimacy. The closeness. The feeling of being real under each other's touch. It was about feeling his breath against her face, about feeling the warmth of his tongue. It was about knowing he’s alive, he’s okay, and he’s with her.

She pulled back, her forehead resting against his. “I love you so much.”

“You’re going back?” The lighthearted air between the group fizzled away, leaving a trail of awkwardness in its wake. She stared at the group of men, her heart rate picking up steadily.

 She stood quickly, rattling the table, and stumbled away. 

She heard Steve call after them as Bucky followed her. “Y/n,” Bucky chased her, catching her wrist once they were alone. 

She spun back to face him, slapping her hands against his chest. “How could you not tell me?” She tried to keep her voice steady.

“I-”

“I mean- how could you? Why would you go back? After everything Steve did to get you back? After what happened- after what you went through?” She interrupted, her shaking hands tangling in her hair. “Why, Bucky, why?”

He gently took her wrists, leaning down to catch her eyes. “Hey, look at me- hey,” his voice lowered, softening around the edges. “That's why I have to do it, baby. I can’t-” he gulped. “I can’t let them do it alone. I can’t let Steve do this alone.”

She blinked through the tears gathering in her eyes, trying desperately to ignore the sickness swirling in her gut. “I can’t do that again, Bucky.”

“I know-”

“We-” she gasped, tilting her head back, trying to keep the tears at bay. “We were supposed to get married.”

He gently took her face in hand, his brows knit together. “We will.” He promised. “There isn’t a thing in this life that could stop me from making you mine.”

“Except death,” she whispered, leaning into his thumb as it swept away her tears. 

“I’ll have Steve this time, okay? I’ll have a super soldier having my back, sweetheart.” He smiled. “I’m coming home.”

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to have faith in him and his men, in Steve. But she felt this gnawing, gut wrenching feeling that if she let him go, he would never come back. But she also knew, there was no stopping the thick headed man. Not when Steve was involved.

“I can’t stop you,” she accepted. “I know I can’t.” He watched her sadly, silent- knowing he wouldn’t deny it. “I chose a man who would never back down, didn’t I? It’s all my fault.” She huffed.

He smiled gently, wrapping her in his arms. “All your fault.”

“What?”

The words- short and quiet, whispered, like they were too awful to say- stuck into her skin like needles. 

“He-” Peggy cleared her throat, voice raw and eyes red. “They didn’t make it.”

Slow, like time had stopped just to elongate that moment, she felt her heart clench in her chest. 

Something cold and dark swirled in her veins, numbing her body. “They didn't-” Her voice broke, her chest restricting. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t. 

It was wrong. 

It was all wrong. None of this could be real, it just couldn’t.

“It was reported that he- he took Captain Roger’s shield and fired at the enemy. He was protecting Rogers.” Peggy’s expression was cold, like she too was trying not to cry. “The side of the train was blown open. Barnes- he just…”

“Don't-” that name. Oh god, his name. 

It couldn’t be real. It wasn’t. It just wasn’t. 

Everything in her swayed, her breath coming in quick pants as she tried to steady herself. “He-” Tears burned behind her eyes, coming too quick to blink away. She couldn’t breathe. 

She couldn’t think.

He was gone.

She pressed her hand to her chest, hard and rough, hitting the center of her breasts. She was shaking, moving in denial. She needed to breathe, she needed to stop the ache- the tight twisting and twisting of her lungs and heart. 

It was all wrong

She was sobbing now, wet streaks burning cold against her heated skin. She couldn’t feel anything as her body hit the floor. Not the cold concrete. Not the torn skin of her knees. Not the concerned touch of Peggy.

Nothing but the all consuming grief that suffocated her.

A/N: Whew! I put it all in one for this one. This is one of my very favorite works I've ever done! I have a soft place in my heart for 1940s Bucky. Also yes I do have a part 2 where she ends up in the future and he sees her again and its sad as fuck (As I do)

[strawberriemarswrites]

Hear me out headcanons for yandere doflamingo vs yandere sir crocodile with reader who managed to get both their attention

I may have just thought of a whole ass scenario surrounding this idea so bear with me.

Yan!Doflamingo vs Yan!Crocodile

Rating: M (gets a little spicy but no outright smut) Word count: 805

You work for Sir Crocodile as his secretary. You hadn’t expected to get the job but he clearly saw something in you that made him pick you among the other applicants.

It’s hard work but you do it well. He finds himself compelled to get you small gifts, claiming they’re just to show his appreciation for your hard work.

For some reason every time you meet someone you like and try to go on a date with them, there’s a last minute excuse as to why they suddenly can’t be there. You don’t talk about your personal life during work hours, so it never occurs to you that Sir Crocodile’s... intimidating all of your dates away.

Sir Crocodile finds himself in a unique position where he’s getting jealous very easily. He never considered himself the type, but something about you going out with anyone makes his blood boil. He chalks it up to you being a valuable asset that he doesn’t want getting distracted.

He starts keeping you a little closer at hand more and more frequently.

The only person who usually is consistently this close to his side is Miss All Sunday and even then he’s not usually putting his hand on her shoulder and keeping her at his side like he does to you.

Crocodile’s always been a little protective of you as one of his employees, though you never noticed it as a particular brand of protectiveness that only applies to you.

(He keeps insisting to himself it’s to protect a treasured employee, nothing more. He’s in a bit of denial, really.)

One day Crocodile brings you to a warlord meeting as like his stenographer, wanting you to take notes and write up the meeting minutes for him to review again later.

Crocodile sits to your left, keeping your chair as close to him as he could while maintaining a professional appearance.

You’re all business, pushing your reading glasses further up the bridge of your nose as you quietly notate. The first few minutes of the meeting go by smoothly.

Enter Doflamingo, strutting in late like he owns the place.

He was already planning on teasing Crocodile about how his little coup was going. But he didn’t expect Croccy to bring along a cute toy to play with! How fun.

He sits down on your right, and even you can’t ignore the sudden rise of tension in the room as he does so.

Especially since he decides that his chair needs to be even closer to you than Crocodile’s.

As the meeting goes on, you slowly relax, focusing on the task at hand.

That is until you feel a hand on your right thigh. It takes every ounce of energy you have not to let your breath hitch. 

Doffy’s always smirking, so no one else reacts when it gets just a hair wider as he continues carrying on the conversation at hand.

Except Crocodile. You can feel the rage rolling off of him so intensely your legs flinch, squeezing them together and pointing them toward your boss in the hopes that the other warlord will take the hint.

Doflamingo takes it as a challenge.

Your legs get pulled apart by invisible strings and he puts his hand right back where he had it, feeling you up under the table. All the while still participating in the meeting like nothing is going on.

Surprisingly, despite the growing fury on your left, Crocodile maintains his composure, all while silently planning Doflamingo’s demise.

Meanwhile Doflamingo’s thinking about how useful a toy like you would be. You’re behaving awfully well for someone who currently has a hand fondling ever closer to their crotch. Maybe he could convince you to leave the old man and join his family instead.

After the meeting finally ends you quickly excuse yourself to return to Crocodile’s ship before things get any worse.

Crocodile is close behind, his hand on the small of your back as he guides you through the halls of the military base. 

But not before he takes Doflamingo by the collar of his garish shirt and threatens if he ever thinks of touching what’s his ever again, he can expect to lose Dressrosa next.

Doffy’s not even fazed by the threat, smirking as always. Be it beyond him to let someone tell him he can’t have something, but he decides it’s better to let it go this time.

After all, when Crocodile’s plan inevitably fails and it puts you out of work, he can conveniently offer you a new job.

And then I had a couple just one-off thoughts that happen after this:

Reader just ever-so conveniently is kidnapped to work for Doflamingo as Croc is sent to Impel Down

and then is kidnapped back by Crocodile when Doffy ends up in Impel Down and Cross Guild starts lmao